


What We Have Become

by gghero



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Abusive Family Members, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, Extramarital Affairs, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I know this is a fantasy world but trust me there is a reason, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Nightmares, Nonbinary Character, Other, Parenthood, Past Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, Sleep Deprivation, not involving any major characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:27:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22804819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gghero/pseuds/gghero
Summary: In Imperial year 1186, the Adrestian Empire seized victory in the nation-wide armed conflict that came to be known as the War of Unification of Fódlan. It is now Imperial Year 1191. Five years have passed since the end of the war, and thanks to the efforts of Emperor Edelgard I's new government, Fódlan enjoys a period of prosperity and relative peace.But fate was not so kind to Caspar and Linhardt.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring, Linhardt von Hevring & Edelgard von Hresvelg, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 59





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Man, things are gonna get rough in this fic. That said, I'm not a huge fan of torture/suffering p*rn. My goal here is to deliver a story that is both heart-wrenching and profound, so if you trust that #angst with a happy ending tag, I invite you to read.
> 
> I tried to cover as many possible triggers/squicks in the tags. They are not necessarily indicative of the overall content of the narrative, just a warning that these topics will be brought up at different points. 
> 
> Linhardt is nonbinary and uses he/him pronouns.
> 
> Edit: upped the rating from M to E as a cautionary measure. I don't know if it will actually end up qualifying as E but I don't want to limit myself when writing.
> 
> Special thanks to Garbage_dono and Dani for listening to me ramble about this idea!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As two armies march home, Caspar finds himself getting lost in thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Saringold for beta-reading this chapter!

Caspar was used to marching. 

Exchanging stories as the scenery around them changed—slowly, subtly—was not a terrible way to pass time during a long journey. Of course, marching back home was a much more pleasant experience than heading to battle; on those occasions, the idle chatting felt more like a grim prelude, or the calm before a storm.

Caspar recalled his days back when he served in the war as a general of the Black Eagle Strike Force, nearly five years ago now. He remembered marching with the certainty that the fight ahead would be a tough one. The anticipation before the attack was, perhaps, even more nerve-wracking than the battle itself. He also remembered feeling light as a feather whenever the proud tall walls of Garreg Mach appeared in the distance as they, the lucky ones, returned from the battlefield. On those occasions, he would turn around to look at his allies, his friends. On their weary, dirty faces, he would see weak smiles. A silent statement that they were grateful to have made it out alive. A sign that everything was going to be alright, at least until the next military campaign.

This time, however, as Caspar watched the city of Enbarr emerge from behind the steep hill they had just surmounted, the strange feeling of emptiness that preceded a battle overcame the young warrior. The warm winds of the Southern Sea lashed at his face. Silver snow still crowned the taller peaks of the Morgaine Ravine, to the west of the capital, but it was nothing compared to the harsh winters he had experienced in the Faerghus Dukedom. He clutched his chest, afflicted with a sudden acute pang of pain. The floodgates to an overwhelming sensation of uneasiness—a bitter feeling that had been haunting him ever since his company had received permission to return to Adrestia—were finally open.

Caspar inhaled.

He was finally home, but not quite.

He trudged silently alongside his comrades, barely registering the lively conversations around him as his thoughts ran wild. A young couple marched hand in hand—one wore the uniform of the Knights of Hevring, the other donned Imperial armor. Some of the younger recruits gathered around a battle-scarred veteran and listened to her gush about her dogs, wondering if they had missed her.

Caspar managed to muster a weak smile to himself, but it faded as he fixed his eyes on the horizon again. Perhaps under other circumstances he would have simply approached any of those groups and joined them in their idle chit-chat. He had always been of the opinion that making friends was as simple as striking a friendly conversation, but lately, he could not bring himself to be sociable. He lowered his head, and moved along.

Suddenly, a voice he recognized rang loud and clear throughout the valley.

“Ho, Caspar!” 

People turned their heads towards its owner—a knight, fast approaching on a piebald horse. There were whispers among the crowd as he slowed down his pace to follow Caspar's own.

“Hadrian,” Caspar mumbled, barely even glancing at the newcomer. He did not need to. He could perfectly picture the benevolent look in the older man’s eyes.

“Everything alright?” Hadrian asked, stroking his mount's mane. There was a soft quality to his otherwise dry, raspy voice as he spoke to Caspar.

“Yeah! Yeah,” he said, nodding to himself.

Over the course of the five long years they had spent in former Galatea territory, Caspar had come to think of Hadrian von Aegir as a close friend. Like himself, Hadrian had been born a second son, to a secondary branch of the Aegir family in his case. Caspar saw the veteran knight as a reflection of himself, as he too had trained relentlessly from an early age to get somewhere in life despite his disadvantageous position. It was no wonder other recruits, especially those of common birth, also looked up to him. His story was one of success; hard work and determination had earned him a coveted position as the Personal Guard of Count Hevring.

The young warrior wondered if the opposite was also true, if Hadrian also saw himself in Caspar. Perhaps that was part of the reason why he appreciated his company, despite their differences. Whereas wise old Hadrian had mastered the arts of patience and obedience, Caspar was brash and often acted on his own accord, even if time and age had rounded off his more caustic edges. He did not have to do it, but on more than one occasion, Hadrian had helped get him out of trouble with the knights of Hevring, and even mediate between him and his direct superiors, the military officers from the Empire. 

“We're almost to Enbarr,” Hadrian observed, wistfully gazing onwards. “You _are_ sure you are coming to the Hevring estate with us, yes? Once again, I must insist—I can submit that letter of recommendation myself.”

“I don't really have anywhere else I have to be. As for the letter, I… I want to do it myself,” he added, patting his breast pocket, where he carried the neatly folded piece of paper. “I need to talk to him, Hadrian. I _need_ to see him.”

Hadrian thoughtfully twirled his graying moustache. “Of course. Of course. I must not forget that the young maste—that milord and you are very close.” He squeezed the reins. “Well, if you need anything, you have but to ask. I am needed at the front, so I shall go on ahead now. Be seeing you again later!”

Caspar bid him farewell and watched as Hadrian spurred on his horse and galloped ahead, leaving him alone with his thoughts once more.

If the very idea of returning to Enbarr made him feel restless, it was mostly because of his impending reunion with Linhardt. He should not be feeling so intimidated by the meeting he himself had requested, but the truth was, he was terrified. 

What would he even _say_ to him after everything that happened?

_“I’m sorry I dumped you via letter. I thought it would make things easier for you, would make it easier to accept that you were going to be married off to some noblewoman. I’m also sorry I broke my promise to you. Are we still friends?”_

“Gah! What am I thinking?!” Caspar exclaimed aloud, so loudly that he turned heads. 

No, he had promised himself he was going to be strong, for himself and for Linhardt. Caspar had been forced to make the hardest decision of his life, but there was no turning back from what had been done. He hoped that letting Linhardt go had been the right thing to do. Refusing to accept that things would never go back to the way they were—deluding himself by thinking they could still have their happily ever after? That would just cause more suffering for everyone involved. 

The only selfish wish Caspar still harbored was that Linhardt still considered him a friend. Nothing less, nothing more. Their romantic relationship may have been short-lived, but hopefully, their friendship was stronger than that. Nothing else mattered to him more than supporting his life companion in any way he could, and if requesting a position in the order of the Knights of Hevring was the easiest way to stay close to him, then he would hand in the letter of recommendation Hadrian had written for him.

With that thought in mind, Caspar slapped his cheeks, and marched in the only direction he could go—onwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to find the perfect balance between expositioning and mysteriously setting up the premise is hard! Hopefully, chapter 1 can answer most questions, so stay tuned for updates.


	2. Chapter 1: The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caspar arrives at the estate of House Hevring a changed man. The ramifications of the events that were set in motion five years ago feel now more real than ever.
> 
> Some things, however, will always stay the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for the lore dump and character introductions if that's not your thing. You know how first chapters usually go. Regardless, I hope you like what I came up with. I put a lot of work into the worldbuilding for this hypothetical scenario.
> 
> Special thanks to Saringold for beta-reading this chapter!

“Identify yourself.”

Caspar put his hand inside his jacket under the attentive look of the gatekeeper. His fingers brushed against the wooden grounding charm around his neck, and for a second, he felt his blood freeze. He quickly snapped out of it when he finally found what he was looking for, tucked away in the inside pocket of his jacket. He took out a tiny badge of honor and showed it to the disgruntled guard. 

“Caspar. Caspar von Bergliez. Uh, General of the Imperial Army.” The gatekeeper carefully inspected the medal, which had his name engraved right under the bronze depiction of the double-headed Black Eagle. She then squinted at Caspar, as if sizing him up. “I'm here on official business with Linh—that is, with Count Hevring.”

“Right. You may pass,” she said unenthusiastically, signaling to her fellow guards to open up the impressive gates. Caspar thanked her and jogged inside, returning the badge to its rightful place—the depths of his pocket.

The Hevring estate was a vast expanse of land located in the outskirts of Enbarr. The House of the Minister of Domestic Affairs had always counted itself among the most affluent noble families in the Empire, and it definitely showed. Impeccably well-kept gardens stretched as far as the eye could see. The grand mansion where the family resided was but a tiny speck on the horizon. 

Caspar could still recall the layout of the estate. Years and years of playing in places where two noble children were not supposed to play had seared a perfect map of the area into his brain. The brick road that ran through the manicured gardens and led to the manor branched off at one point and went deeper into a small thicket. That was the path he had to take to get to the knights' outbuildings. 

Caspar had been told to head there first and speak to the captain, a lady by the name of Ada von Rusalka. She commanded the Order of the Knights of Hevring and was in charge of all security matters. He ought to introduce himself and deliver his letter to her before he would be allowed to request an audience with Hadrian, who, as Linhardt’s personal knight, was to finally authorize the meeting with the young count. Caspar groaned in frustration thinking at how tedious the whole process sounded. It would be so much simpler to simply waltz right into the house—he was  _ certain  _ that Linhardt would not mind—but he could bet his last copper coin that the staff would not be very pleased with that. 

Caspar entertained the idea no more, as he was not in a position to be causing trouble. If he wanted to be accepted into the order, he would have to be on his best behavior, and no matter how absurd and arbitrary certain rules might seem, they were to be followed.

He tightened the strap of his rucksack, and followed the road towards his first destination.

If nothing else, at least the walk was pleasant. Birds chirped as Caspar made his way through the thicket, dancing breezes ruffling the leaves overhead. Curiously enough, Caspar’s legs were not tired in the slightest, and the blisters on his feet might as well be nonexistent, despite the fact that his company had been marching for nearly a week, only stopping to set up camp for the night. 

Caspar had always found it easy to fend off physical exhaustion when he had a single goal in mind, and that still proved true even if the young warrior felt uncharacteristically drained as of late. Perhaps he was getting old. A sad thought, considering he was only twenty-seven years of age.

At one point during his trek, Caspar started hearing the distant commotion that one could expect to hear at a military site—intense voices shouting orders, metal clashing against metal, and horses neighing. The noise grew progressively louder the closer he got until it finally drowned out the song of the birds. After about twenty minutes of walking, he finally caught sight of the sturdy walls that surrounded the perimeter.

House Hevring had never stood out for its military prowess, especially not in comparison to House Bergliez, but Caspar was impressed at the fact that the facilities were better equipped than he had imagined. It was like a small-scale village in there. The residential area was made up of a series of barracks arranged into rows, and the mess hall could be found nearby. A little further ahead, in what would be the main square, Caspar found the headquarters, the armory, and the blacksmith. The training grounds occupied a larger area near the outskirts, bordering the forest. There was an arena and a horseback riding course near the stables.

Caspar remembered fondly the one time he had dragged Linhardt down that same path, wanting to see the knights. Of course, the two children had been quickly discovered and returned to the family mansion before they could even make it past the thicket, but at least Caspar got to touch a real suit of armor, so the mission had not been a total waste of time.

That day, Caspar returned there a grown man, and yet he felt just as out of place as back then, if not more. He inhaled sharply, and steeled himself as he walked up to a young knight that was stationed in front of the main administrative building.

“Excuse me,” he said to the boy. A large crowd was gathered in the busy main square, and making himself heard over the din was harder than he remembered. The reality that he no longer had many people to talk to, or the energy to raise his voice like before, suddenly dawned on him. Caspar shook his head, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Excuse me.”

“Can I help you?”

“Is this where I can find Captain von Rusalka?”

“Lady Ada’s not here now. You might find her at the training grounds though,” the knight replied, a sheepish look on his juvenile face as he pointed towards a building with a rounded dome, further ahead. Caspar gave him his thanks before leaving, but in his haste, he failed to notice the sound of the door to the building opening.

“At the training grounds? Really now?” 

The stern, commanding voice of Ada von Rusalka made the knight turn on his heels. As the heavy doors of the officers' headquarters closed behind her, his mouth dropped.

“Lady Ada! Y-you're  _ here _ !” he said, a confused look on his face as he bowed so deeply that his helmet almost fell off. “I could have sworn you—”

“Blast it. He walks fast,” she mumbled, ignoring the young man’s babbling as she tried to make her way through the crowd, to no avail. Caspar was an Imperial red speck in a sea of people decked in Hevring teal. She tried calling out to him, but the young warrior did not hear her voice. The Captain grumbled, “Save that for later. Now come with me. Once I am done talking to him, I expect a proper apology for wasting von Bergliez’s time.”

“Yessir,” he exhaled, dragging his feet as he followed her, defeated. His discomfiture was only momentary, though. “Lady Ada? Sorry to ask, but did you say von Bergliez? As in,  _ the _ Caspar von Bergliez?”

“It appears his reputation precedes him,” Ada commented. “Though I suppose that is to be expected. He is one of the Empire's finest, after all.” 

Though she did not know Caspar on a personal level, she was acquainted with his exploits as a general of the former Black Eagle Strike Force. Hadrian had also spoken at length about him in the letters he regularly sent home. The way her lieutenant spoke about the boy was almost as if he had found a protegé of his own. 

She had no issues with this mentorship of sorts, but she  _ had  _ been surprised when, a couple of days after it was announced that the Knights and the Imperial soldiers had been given permission to return to Enbarr, Hadrian had requested that Caspar be allowed to apply to become a knight. Ada was not one to pry into someone else's business—she was of the opinion that gossiping was a most boorish vice—but she could not help but feel intrigued. A high ranking military officer relinquishing his position to be employed under another lord was a most uncommon occurrence, after all, and even though Caspar seemed to be a trustworthy man, the Captain could not help but harbor some amount of suspicion. 

Maybe upon interviewing Caspar she would be able to glean the real intentions behind such an odd decision.

After a couple of minutes of wading through the crowd, the pair eventually made it to the training grounds. Caspar was already there, searching for the Captain with a sheepish look on his face. Hadrian had described her as a forty-something year old woman, with long hair woven into braids that she usually wore in a practical ponytail. 

“Caspar von Bergliez. I understand you have been looking for me?”

“Who—?”

Had it not been for her quick reflexes, Caspar would have bumped into her when he clumsily turned around, as though he had suddenly forgotten how much space his body occupied. Unflinching, Ada reacted by stepping backwards with calculated agility. He blinked slowly, and mumbled an apology.

“Captain Ada von Rusalka,” she said, saluting in the blink of an eye before returning to her usual rigid posture. 

“Oh—oh! I have been looking for you!” Caspar said a bit too loudly, his voice echoing throughout the arena. He cleared his throat, regaining his composure, and saluted back. He  _ was _ supposed to be on his best behavior, and the way the Captain’s cold gray eyes studied his every move was already starting to put him under a lot of pressure. “I mean, it is an honor to finally meet you, Lady Rusalka.” The two then stood in silence for a moment until Caspar remembered why he had come to see her. “Uh, right. This is for you.”

“Thank you,” she said, pocketing the letter after barely sparing a glance at the wax seal, and taking out a small agenda in the same motion. 

“You have been granted permission to see Count Hevring.” She opened her notebook to a bookmarked page. She studied the timetable that had been scribbled onto the paper for what seemed like a fraction of a second before snapping the agenda shut and putting it away. “Your appointment is this afternoon. Half past five, on the dot. Tardiness is unacceptable—the Count is incredibly busy these days,” she said, adjusting the black armband around her bicep.

Caspar slowly nodded. When word of the passing of Countess Odessa von Hevring reached Galatea about a week ago, Caspar knew exactly what was going to happen next. Two years ago, her husband had given the title to her after his untimely death so that it wouldbe passed down to Linhardt when the young noble had finally found a suitable wife. That was what the old Count had stipulated in his last will, even if things had not exactly gone that way. Linhardt had gotten married long ago—a fact that Caspar was painfully aware of—so why was he only inheriting the title  _ now _ ? Why did his mother hold onto it for so long?

Regardless of her reasons, now both of Linhardt’s parents were gone, and he could no longer avoid his duty as the heir of House Hevring. The tedious process of inheriting his family's wealth was just the cherry on top of his duties as a noble and a minister. Caspar recalled that his own father's last will and testament had been a bureaucratic nightmare for Hermann and himself to deal with. Well, just for Hermann, really. As expected, his older brother inherited everything. Caspar, on the other hand, had been left a laughable sum of money and some old family heirloom that he ended up selling off to a traveling merchant.

In the end, things had gone according to their parents' plans. The same plans they had finalised well before the births of their respective children, Caspar presumed. Like pawns on a chess board, everyone was right where they were  _ supposed  _ to be at that given moment in time. 

He sighed as he bid farewell to the Captain and her companion, who blurted out an apology for "inconveniencing him earlier due to his incompetence". Caspar then left as fast as he had arrived, only sparing a glance at the knights who were sparring with lances in the arena.

“That was Caspar von Bergliez?” the young knight asked. His question betrayed his disappointment.

“Is something amiss?”

“Nothing! It's just… I expected him to  _ look  _ more, uh… less…” he muttered, fidgeting with the hem of his uniform.

Ada inhaled. The knights and the soldiers had been marching on foot for nearly a week now, which explained their worn-out looks. Caspar’s unshaven face and unkempt hair were more than justified, but it was obvious that her subordinate's comment was not in reference to his physical appearance.

No, something about his demeanor did not feel right. Or rather, it did not live up to the various stories everyone had heard about the young warrior. General Caspar von Bergliez was a war hero. A force to be reckoned with.  _ This  _ Caspar, however, could not be further away from that description. Ada could not help but be reminded of an abandoned old dog as she saw him trudge out of the training grounds, and felt a pang of pity for the way things had turned out for him.

“One would think that after fighting and surviving the bloodiest war Fódlan has seen in centuries, a simple peacekeeping mission would not have affected him this much,” she mused. “And yet…”

“Peacekeeping mission?”

“Have you been living under a rock for the past five years?” Ada sighed. She glanced at the downcast young knight, and her rigid expression softened a little. She knew she would accomplish nothing by chastising his ignorance. Explaining things would be faster and more productive. “I assume that you at least know about the situation up north.”

“I hear it's not great. I know there is a famine.” He thoughtfully rested his finger against his chin. “I just never understood  _ why  _ all of this happened in the first place."

“That territory used to belong to House Galatea, a noble house from the former Kingdom of Faerghus. Never had much money to their name, but what they  _ did _ have was an heiress. A Crest-bearing heiress. Lady Ingrid was their only chance at securing a beneficial union to a more powerful house.” 

“But alas, the young maiden perished in battle and her family plummeted into ruin shortly afterwards. They had lost what little political leverage they had left in the region. And with the tides of war quickly turning in our favor, they were forced to flee the country. I believe House Daphnel of the Leicester Dukedom took them in.”

“They left their people  _ behind _ ?!” the young knight said, balling his fists. Ada refused to weigh in on the morality of House Galatea’s actions, and instead, she averted her eyes.

“There were protests, revolts. The region had never been very prosperous, you see. And, with their lords refusing to take responsibility, a lot of innocent people were going to starve to death. That is, if the riots did not kill them first. It was estimated that about ten thousand people could have lost their lives one way or another. But of course, Her Majesty did not intend to let that happen.”

The pair soon arrived at the Captain’s office. Fearing she would leave his many questions unanswered, the knight followed Ada around as she went about her duties. She sat down behind the mahogany desk that occupied the middle of the room, and almost mechanically started taking notes on a piece of paper. The young man took a seat on one of the chairs in front of her desk. There was a prolonged silence as her quill dashed across the paper. She appeared to be busy, but as long as she did not tell him to leave, he supposed it was fine to wait until the history lesson was over.

“Emperor Edelgard,” Ada resumed talking, “then made a deal with her Minister of Domestic Affairs. I am talking of course about our late liege—Count Wolfgang von Hevring. Her Majesty and her council of ministers have been working tirelessly to ensure the peace and wellbeing of all of Fódlan’s inhabitants, you see. That was and still is her priority.”

“Lady Edelgard is a good ruler,” the knight said, nodding emphatically. So many others would have turned a blind eye to the misfortune of people who used to be the enemy, but not their emperor.

Ada nodded thoughtfully. “She tasked Lord Hevring with devising a plan to stabilize the economy of the Galatea territory, and entrusted onto him the responsibility of overseeing the region. In return, Emperor Edelgard allowed House Hevring to annex the former Galatea territory to his own county if he so desired.” 

She then stood up, and walked towards a framed map of Fódlan showcased on the wall behind her desk. The captain tapped her finger against the glass and pointed to a small region in the upper right corner. Squinting, the young knight could see that somewhere between Fraldarius and Daphnel, written in elegant cursive, were the words "East Hevring".

“So that’s where this Galatea region is!” There was a beat of silence. Thinking Ada was judging his rather scarce knowledge of geography, he nervously added, “I mean, of course I know where East Hevring  _ is _ ! I just had no idea that it used to be called… something else… or that it used to belong to another lord…”

The boy lowered his head, and Ada sighed. It was hardly his fault that his education had been lacking. She could only hope that this public school idea that the recently formed Ministry of Development had come up with would help. The vast majority of commoner families could not afford to send their children to private academies, or even hire a tutor. She gave him a sympathetic nod, and resumed her story.

“There was little to be done about the miserable state of the lands. The winter and the war had not been kind it to the region, but Count Hevring rose to the task. He restructured the Empire’s budget, and increased taxes in his own territory. He even sent some of the best men and women in the ministry to Galatea to oversee the progress personally. But of course, the economical miracle would not be achieved overnight.” 

“You have to understand that the people of Faerghus were very hostile to us Adrestians back then. Our relationship has thankfully improved over time, but those were difficult times. The knights in our order are well trained, but in order to protect Lord Hevring’s civil officers, we were going to need reinforcements. Lady Edelgard tasked the new Minister of Military Affairs, Hermann von Bergliez, with sending some of the Empire’s troops to support his colleague.”

“And he sent his own brother to command those troops.”

“In a way, yes. To Lord Bergliez, it was more like a test. His brother was a young general back then, and though many would argue he had already proven his worth in battle, it was true that he lacked experience—proper military training. And it is no wonder. He was only seventeen when the war broke out and his father named him captain. That kid was put on the front lines and had to fight to survive. And survive he did.” 

Ada paused for a moment. As the event from five years ago played out in her memory, questions began to arise. Matters she had never considered before.

The outcome of the situation in Galatea had been favorable for them, she explained. The incipient rebellion was nipped in the bud, and the people of Faerghus eventually got used to the presence of Adrestian troops once they started distributing grain to the population. Hadrian’s reports had been her main source of information since the day they had departed.

Sensing that the lesson had come to its end, the young knight stood up. He quickly bowed to herand thanked her for her time, rushing out the door before his superior realized he had been slacking off. Other things, however, preoccupied Ada’s mind at the moment.

If she remembered correctly, Caspar had ultimately been chosen to lead the Galatea mission, but back then there were also rumors that the reclusive daughter of House Varley was to be sent north to command some troops. But it was a fact that Lady Bernadetta had ended up staying in Enbarr. They would not have her presiding over the Ministry of Development otherwise. 

Could it be that Caspar had not been his brother’s first option? 

If so, what was it that made Lord Bergliez change his mind? 

These were thoughts Ada would not divulge, as the second thing she hated the most after gossiping was spreading theories without solid evidence. Baseless conjecture would in turn become rumors, which would in turn lead to gossiping. They would, however, stew in her mind for a while.

There were some mysteries surrounding Caspar von Bergliez that she would definitely have to look into.

* * *

House Hevring’s mansion had barely changed since the last time Caspar visited.

The same dark teal carpets were spread over the granite floors of the impressive hallways and the grand staircase that connected the foyer with the rest of the mansion. The fabric was just as plush under his boots as Caspar remembered, too.

An impressive black marble chimney presided over the large salon to the left of the foyer. Tall walls, large windows, and an impressive fresco on the ceiling gave visitors the impression that they had just wandered into a cathedral. Caspar had always thought it was a bit excessive. Perhaps he just lacked the artistic sensibility to appreciate the luxurious decor that the Hevrings had amassed over generations.

He was still early for his meeting with Linhardt, Caspar realized, but it was not like he had anything better to do. He went through the doorway to the salon and decided to wait there.

There were few servants about at that time of day. An old maid scrubbed the carpet in front of the hearth. Caspar looked up. A translucent black curtain covered the Hevring family portrait that decorated the mantle, a sign of mourning for the passing of Countess Hevring, no doubt. He stared at the massive canvas in silence. 

Everyone looked about twenty years younger in the picture. Linhardt was but a little child. He stood perfectly still between his parents, one of his mother’s perfectly manicured hands on his shoulder. There was a forced smile on her taut, equine face that clashed with her husband and child’s dour expressions. Count Hevring himself towered over his wife and child. His half-moon glasses and his characteristic pencil moustache were not enough to draw Caspar’s attention away from the lines on his tired visage.

As a child, Wolfgang von Hevring was perhaps number three on Caspar’s list of scariest adults—right after the sinister Lord Vestra and the big, burly beast that was his own father. Something about how severe and distant he looked at any given moment had always given him shivers. Now that he was grown, Caspar thought the old count just looked jaded. 

Sad.

A sudden metallic noise made Caspar snap back to reality. On the other side of the room, another woman whose presence he had not noticed was rummaging through some sort of wooden cabinet with a glass door, standing on a stool so she could reach the top. She had her back turned to Caspar and the maid, who paid no heed to the noise. Caspar’s curiosity, however, was piqued. Judging from her appearance, she could not be a servant. She was dressed in what looked like a modest black nightgown, very different from the uniform the other girl was wearing. Something around her long, slender neck twinkled under the afternoon sun that filtered through a small slit between the drawn velvet curtains. 

Caspar squinted as he cautiously approached her. The woman was not searching the cabinet, but rather tinkering with a strange sundial that was showcased inside. A hypnotic pendulum rhythmically swung back and forth in the bowels of the curious piece of furniture—a magical gadget of some sort, perhaps?

“‘scuse me,” Caspar spoke, “do you need any help with—”

_ Ding, dong! Ding, dong! _

Caspar would be lying if he said the sudden noise the machine made did not startle him, but the woman  _ jumped _ out of her skin in shock. He watched it all happen in slow motion. She let out a high-pitched yelp as she tried to regain her balance, her arms flailing helplessly in the air as she tumbled backwards. 

“Milady!” the maid cried out. Caspar did not hesitate. He leapt forward and caught the woman in midair, wrapping his arms around her torso and digging in his heel to stop the momentum of the fall. She safely landed on his chest with a soft thud. 

Her knees weak, Caspar helped her get back on her feet. Only when she turned around did he notice her voluminous belly—she was pregnant. Caspar, who was still breathing heavily from the shock of it all, felt a second wave of panic wash over him.

“Ma’am! Are you alright?” he asked with urgency as he led her towards a nearby couch and helped her sit down. “Is the baby safe?”

“I am fine! I am fine!” she said as she calmed down with deep breaths. She pressed her palm flat against her belly, and started rubbing it in slow, circular motions. Her crystalline voice still wavered, but she seemed much calmer overall. “The baby seems fine too.”

“Lady Christina,” the breathless maid said as she knelt in front of her lady. “We must see milord at once and make sure it's nothing serious…”

Caspar felt as though he had suddenly gone deaf. His ears were ringing like a blast of Meteor magic had just impacted mere feet away from him. There was not total silence, though. He could hear their voices, but they sounded so distant and muffled that he could not tell what they were saying. 

Christina. 

He had heard that name before. Or rather, he had  _ read _ that name before. Linhardt had described her to him before. Red hair. Crimson eyes. Freckles dotting her round cheeks and the bridge of her long nose. All the pieces fell into place.

He was in the presence of none other than Christina von Hevring—the woman Linhardt had taken as his wife.

“Good sir, are you alright?” 

“You're—Christina?” The maid rolled her eyes as though that was the most stupid question she had heard in a long time, and Caspar cleared his throat, flustered. “I mean—I am fine. Sorry to trouble you.”

“Are you sure you are alright? You look a bit pale.”

Caspar simply shrugged his shoulders and mumbled a quiet “yes”. Why were words so difficult all of a sudden?

“Hey, you. Can you help me take her to Lord Hevring’s office?” the maid said rather forcefully, as she was starting to get a little impatient.

“Karina,” Christina politely spoke. “Your assistance is appreciated, but not needed. I certainly do not need someone to help me get around my own house, let alone two people! I would hate to importune—”

“It's no problem for me,” Caspar interjected. “I was going to meet with Linh—uh, Count Hevring anyways.”

“See, you are not causing trouble for anyone! Now please, let us assist you. Lord Hevring will be very upset if he finds out you had an accident and didn’t say anything.”

“It was hardly an  _ accident _ . I simply got spooked by the noise.” Christina said, a tad huffy as she resigned herself to her fate. Caspar offered her his arm, and Karina led the way. “And please, do not tell my husband I was tampering with our new clock.”

“Your what?” Caspar asked.

Christina’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Our very own clock. It is a thing of beauty, is it not?”

She was talking about that…  _ thing _ , that much was clear, but Caspar was embarrassed to admit that that name did not mean anything to him. He simply nodded and commented, “Quite so. Very, uh, loud too.”

“That infernal contraption? It was brought in only last week, and it is usually not that loud,” the maid interjected. “I wonder if something Milady did while she was messing with it made it—”

“Oh, please do not bring that up again, you are embarrassing me!” Christina exclaimed, a blush spreading across her freckled cheeks. “And again, do not speak to my husband about what I was doing. I beg of you.”

Caspar raised an eyebrow. It was obvious to him that Christina was genuinely upset about the whole ordeal, but as the old maid quietly apologized, he could not help but wonder what the real problem was. This was the second time that she got flustered about the idea of Linhardt knowing she had been tinkering with this “clock” item. So what if she had been? She probably was just curious and wanted to take a closer look. It was not like anything was broken in the process, and even if that were the case, he was certain that Linhardt would not be too upset about it. He simply had never been the type to care much about material possessions. 

Did Christina not know  _ anything at all  _ about her own spouse?

After a couple of minutes of walking in silence, the three arrived at a pair of large mahogany doors. Vague memories of Count Hevring’s office suddenly came flooding back. He had only been there a couple of times—usually when he and Linhardt got into  _ big  _ trouble. Standing in front of the closed doors awakened that childlike anxiety within him. 

Only this time, a very different Count Hevring was waiting inside.

The maid rapped on the door once, and waited. She then knocked again, more urgently this time, and finally pushed one of the heavy leaves open after a couple of seconds of silence. The three of them let themselves in.

The desk on the far side of the rectangular room was empty, but a familiar figure was leaning against the marble railing of a balcony opposite the main door—the large glass door leading to the balcony was the sole provider of natural light in the room, for the remaining walls were lined with bookcases and political maps of Fódlan. Translucent white curtains elegantly danced in the breeze. A thin cloud of white smoke momentarily swirled above Linhardt’s head before vanishing into thin air. He took a puff out of his pipe, and let out a sigh as he slowly turned around.

“Hadrian, I told you already. I am not seeing anyone else today until—”

The disgruntled expression on his face lasted a fraction of a second before he finally registered that it was not his loyal retainer at the doorstep. 

The first thing Caspar thought when he saw his old friend was how much he resembled the portrait of the younger Wolfgang von Hevring downstairs. He even now wore a similar pair of halfmoon glasses. However, unlike the old count, Linhardt wore his hair down—strands of dark green cascading down his shoulders and almost blending in with the dark tunic he wore as a sign of mourning. The black only accentuated his pale, almost sickly complexion. 

“Lord Hevring? Is everything alright?”

“Huh? Oh, yes,” he said rather unconvincingly, managing to peel his eyes off of Caspar, who stood by the doorway. “Sorry. My mind was somewhere else.”

“I said that you ought to check that Milady and the baby are fine. She gave us quite the scare.”

“What? What scare?” Linhardt uttered, snapping back to reality as the old maid stifled a sigh. He hastily closed the doors to the balcony behind him, set his pipe down on his desk, and approached his wife. She had been taken to one of the armchairs that surrounded a small coffee table in one corner of the room. “What happened?”

Christina sank deeper into the chair as Karina informed him of what had transpired, leaving out the part about the clock. Linhardt said nothing as he tried to pay attention to her account. Caspar recognized that focused look on his face. He could tell exactly where his attention was by the way he shot small glances at him through the corner of his eye.

“I should probably go,” Caspar said, “and come back when it’s actually time for our meeting.”

“No. No, this will take but a minute. Stay  _ very  _ still now, Christina,” Linhardt instructed his wife, closing his eyes as he placed a hand against her belly. A faint white glow started emanating from the palm of his hand. Caspar had seen that kind of magic before. Linhardt, Professor Manuela, and the other monks would often use it to assess the general state of their injured soldiers, and search for internal wounds and the like. As Linhardt had explained to him once, Faith magic could see things that the naked eye could not. 

After a minute or so, the glow started to fade. Everyone awaited his diagnosis with bated breath, but when he opened his mouth, words did not come out; instead, he simply uttered a dispassionate “ouch.”

“What was that?” Caspar asked. “Is something wrong?!”

“The baby kicked me,” Linhardt said with a hint of a smile on his face. 

A sigh of relief swept through the room. After making extra sure that everything was alright, the maid excused herself, as she had to return to her duties. Christina decided it would also be appropriate for her to leave Linhardt alone with his visitor. She stood up with Linhardt’s help, and then approached Caspar. 

“I must thank you once more for your help, mister… um…” She paused for a moment, trying to recall his name, but then she realized she had no clue who this man was. Flustered, she exclaimed, “Oh, goodness, I am so sorry! I never even asked you your name. How discourteous of me.”

“I suppose an introduction is in order,” Linhardt interjected before his friend could say anything. “Christina, meet Caspar. Caspar… well, you already know Christina.”

There was a beat of silence as the woman processed her spouse’s words. Caspar gave her a forced smile, feeling just as lost as she did. But then, her face lit up. “Caspar?  _ That  _ Caspar?”

“I don’t know any other Caspars,” Linhardt replied with that deadpan sarcasm of his.

“Wait, you know me?”

“ _ Know _ you? Why, my husband talks about you all the time!”

Caspar’s eyes widened just as Linhardt cleared his throat, the faintest hint of a blush on his pale cheeks. “Not  _ all  _ the time. I also like discussing Crests.”

Christina let out a demure giggle at what she thought was the most clever quip she had heard Linhardt say in a while. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Caspar of House Bergliez. And once again, I can’t thank you enough for your truly heroic deed. I hope we have the chance of meeting again in the future! I would love to get to know you better.”

At that, Caspar blushed. He thanked her, but decided to keep to himself the fact that she was probably going to see him around. That is, if Linhardt  _ did  _ accept him into the Order of the Knights of Hevring. He had thought about it long and hard. Logically, there should not be any reason why Linhardt would refuse such a harmless proposal. Then again, his logic had been completely wrong before.

Christina’s absence left an almost oppressive silence in the room. Caspar stood there in silence, hesitant to even move an inch closer despite the fact that he was dying to give Linhardt a big hug and bombard him with hundreds, thousands of questions.  _ How have you been? How are you now? Are you coping with your parents’ deaths? Are you happy you are going to have a baby?  _

_ Are we still friends? _

“Welcome home, Caspar.”

Caspar snapped back to reality as he raised his head to look at Linhardt, who slowly walked up to him with his arms outstretched. He thought his heart had stopped beating for a moment when it was Linhardt who gave  _ him _ that hug he had been fantasizing about, his arms wrapped around his neck and an intense scent filling Caspar’s nostrils as he buried his head in the crook of his neck. It was the familiar smell of the same medicinal herbs Linhardt used to smoke quite often back during the war, which he assumed were inside the pipe that he had been seen with earlier. And as usual, there was also a familiar smell he had never known how to describe. Something intrinsically  _ Linhardt  _ that made him feel safe and warm inside.

Something that made him unable to express the complicated mess of emotions he found himself grappling with.

He wanted to protest against that hug. He wanted to push Linhardt away from him and ask him how come he had forgiven him so easily—tell him he did not feel like he had earned the right to be forgiven in the first place. But instead he found himself paralyzed in his arms. It was ridiculous how one simple gesture of genuine affection from his sweet childhood friend could render him completely defenseless. Utterly ridiculous. 

Linhardt did not know the power he held over him.

Caspar closed his eyes and felt his whole body relax. Everything felt right again. As long as they stayed together like that, he could almost pretend that the nonsensical nightmare he had been living in during the past few years had finally come to an end. 

Letting go was among the most difficult things he had ever had to do in his life. There was a long pause as they both tried to compose themselves. If Linhardt noticed that Caspar’s eyes were a bit red, he did not say anything.

“I’ve missed you, Lin,” said Caspar, his voice almost a whisper.

“I’ve missed you too,” replied Linhardt with a smile, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeves.

“You look different,” Caspar observed.

“Is it a good or a bad kind of different?”

“Just different.”

Linhardt let out a little chuckle at his clumsy answer, delighting himself in the grimace that appeared on his friend’s face. “Well, in that case, you look different too.” Caspar grinned nervously, and ran his hand through his overgrown hair. Only then did he realize how terribly greasy his hair was. Goddess, he desperately needed a bath. As he went around his desk and sat down on his chair, Linhardt asked, “So what brings you all the way to my home?” 

Caspar raised an eyebrow. He was certain that either Ada or Hadrian  _ must  _ have already told him about the official reason Caspar wanted to meet with him. He put his hand into his pocket, and took out the letter Ada had not even opened. He smoothed it against the wooden surface of the desk before handing it to Linhardt. Just like the Captain had done earlier, Linhardt took a glance at the seal and then left it on his letterbox, unopened.

“Hey, it took me a lot of effort to write that. Can someone in this estate take just one minute to read it?”

“I’m saving it for later. I really want to hear your voice now.”

It felt like Linhardt was evaluating every tiny detail about Caspar. The way those dark blue eyes of his were practically glued to his face was starting to make him a little uneasy. He swallowed, and averted his gaze.

“I don't have much else to say. I want to quit the army. Start anew.”

“So you put down your arms just to pick them back up?”

“I gotta make a living somehow. There's not much I’m good at besides fighting.”

Linhardt did not acknowledge that last statement. “You could do literally anything else, Caspar. It’s never too late to hit the books again.”

“Ha! That’s a good one, Lin.”

Linhardt rolled his eyes and sighed. “You could learn a craft. You’re good with your hands. I still have those fishing lures you sent me for my birthday.”

Caspar grimaced. He knew what Linhardt was talking about. He had been working for weeks on those misshapen  _ things  _ that looked nothing like actual fish, and they still haunted his nightmares. He still did not know why he had thought that taking up woodcarving, or sending Linhardt his first pieces, had seemed like such great ideas. His hands were not made for creating. There was only one thing they were good at.

“I haven’t picked up my tools in a long time,” Caspar said with an empty laugh, shaking his head. “You know me, I get bored easily.”

Linhardt closed his eyes, and meditated in silence for a good minute. He finally spoke, “If knighthood is what you really wish, then you have my consent.”

Caspar’s face immediately lit up, and he almost jumped out of his seat. “Thank you so much, Linhardt. You won’t regret this!”

“I don’t doubt it. Now, I still need to run the details of the knighting ceremony by Lady Ada.” Linhardt picked up his quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and languidly scribbled down something on a piece of paper. He clicked his tongue and pushed his long hair behind his ears with an annoyed look on his face. As Caspar’s eyes followed the movements of his hand, he suddenly noticed that there was something tied around his wrist. Because he was wearing long, wide sleeves, Caspar had not realized that Linhardt was wearing what looked like a thin stripe of grayish fabric that was frayed at the ends, which he immediately recognized as the white hair tie he had given him many, many years ago now. His heart missed a beat.

“... about a week or so. Make yourself at home in the meantime.” Caspar blinked slowly, and nodded sheepishly. “Caspar?”

“I  _ was  _ listening!” he exclaimed, blushing a little. “What do you mean ‘make yourself at home’? I kinda already had plans to stay at an inn.” 

That much was true. Linhardt did not have to know that, excluding food expenses, he only had enough money to afford a room for a couple of nights. It had not occurred to him that Linhardt would  _ obviously  _ want to have him over as his guest, which would solve a lot of his monetary troubles, but… 

Linhardt returned his quill to its inkwell, and chuckled. “You really think I’d let you stay the night at some crummy inn when I have more empty guest rooms than I know what to do with?”

Caspar furrowed his brow. He really did not like depending on others to get by, and Linhardt was already doing him a huge favor by getting him the job. What other choice did he have, though? Refusing would only make Linhardt get annoyed.

“Guess you wouldn’t. Look, it’s been a long journey. I’m not thinking straight,” Caspar huffed. 

“I understand. Trust me. I do.” Linhardt put a hand on his back, and guided him towards the door. Caspar felt his muscles tense up under his touch. “You’ll feel more like yourself once you settle in and have some rest.”

Caspar nodded sheepishly as Linhardt escorted him to the door. Linhardt beckoned a houseboy that was dusting a series of portraits of previous heads of House Hevring that lined the walls, and asked him to guide Caspar to one of the empty guest rooms. Still a little lost because of how quickly time had gone by, Caspar waved at the servant, who instructed him to follow him. But before he could take one more step, Linhardt’s voice called out to him.

“Oh, and one more thing; Christina and I would love to have you over for dinner.”

Caspar blinked, perplexed. “She would?” 

“Figure of speech,” Linhardt sighed. “But she did look interested in meeting you. And, if you want my honest opinion… I think you two have much more in common than you realize.” 

Caspar was not so sure about that. Christina seemed like such a proper lady, and he was… well, he was  _ Caspar _ . Linhardt added, “Of course, you don’t have to—” 

“No, dinner sounds good. I’ll be there.”

“Seven. Dining hall. See you there.”

Linhardt retreated into his office as soon as Caspar was out of sight. His knees weak, he leaned against the door, and let himself collapse to the floor. A cold drop of sweat ran down his forehead as he looked up to the ceiling, nervously fidgeting with the old hair tie he wore tied around his wrist. His breathing shallow, he mumbled:

“What… what happens now?”


	3. Chapter 2: Too Good to Be True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caspar has a dinner party to attend and many things to wrap his head around. Linhardt makes an unexpected decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like long chapters because this is probably what this fic is going to be like, as I will try to keep chapters more or less consistent.
> 
> Content/trigger warnings for this chapter: brief mentions of drowning/choking, brief mentions of homophobia/transphobia.
> 
> Special thanks to Saringold for beta-reading!

Caspar had the strange sensation that something inside the ornamental suits of armor that decorated the third floor hallway was watching him.

Those husks of metal had no eyes or faces, but Caspar felt observed as he followed the houseboy leading him towards his bedroom. He did not really believe in ghosts, but even he had to admit that the atmosphere of that hallway was a little unsettling. Perhaps he was just tired, and was starting to see things, or perhaps it was the fact that that wing of the Hevring mansion was unfamiliar to him. During his childhood, Linhardt had always let him sleep in his bedroom. At least until their parents decided they were getting too old to be sharing a bed or holding hands in public. 

Caspar inhaled. He marched forward and tried not to think about the creepy suits of armor and the dozens of imaginary eyes on him. He broke the silence.

“Say, is anyone else staying here?” 

The thought of having neighbors was a little comforting, but so far, most of the rooms they had passed by seemed empty.

“Only Sir Hadrian and you, General,” the houseboy replied in a thick Galatean accent that Caspar recognized immediately. He raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued not by the boy’s manner of speaking, but by what he had just said. 

“Hadrian stays in one of the guest rooms?”

“Oh, I apologize for the confusion. These rooms are for members of the personal guard of House Hevring.” The houseboy then went on to explain how the late Count Hevring had significantly reduced their numbers after the end of the war, until only Hadrian—his personal guard, and now Linhardt’s—remained. 

“I see.”

It made sense that the personal guards of the family would sleep in that area of the mansion. Their duty was protecting and serving their lord and his family. Living close to them, but not so close that they would intrude into their personal lives, was only logical. What Caspar did not understand was why _he_ had to stay there.

“Lord Hevring specifically gave instructions to take you to one of these rooms,” the servant said, as though he could read Caspar’s mind. “They are more spacious and better suited to your personal needs. But if you have any problems with this arrangement, I can let Milord know—”

“No! No problem. No problem at all,” Caspar laughed. It did not matter where Linhardt wanted him to stay. In a couple of days, a week at most, his knighting ceremony would take place. After that, he would be moved to the barracks with the rest of the knights. “I was just curious.”

When they eventually made it to their destination, Caspar saw what the houseboy meant by “suited to his needs.” 

The bedroom stood out from the rest of the mansion and more closely resembled something he might have seen in his childhood home. It was an ample chamber, closer to a town apartment in size, and the furniture was sturdy, practical, and markedly militaristic in style. A mannequin that Caspar assumed he could use as a stand for his armor occupied one corner of the room. Behind it, there was an empty weapons rack mounted on the wall. At the foot of the queen-sized bed was an ornate trunk for his personal belongings, and above the headboard hung an old, teal banner with the family crest of House Hevring embroidered onto it in golden thread. The bookshelves near the desk that sat under the only window were completely empty, but there was not a speck of dust on them. Linhardt must have had the room prepared for him in advance. 

The servant then opened a door that led to an adjacent bathroom. Caspar almost let out a surprised whistle as he peeked inside and inspected the bathtub. A complicated system of pipes and faucets had been installed on the wall closest to it. 

“Oh, that reminds me! I want to take a bath so I’m gonna need some water.” Caspar said, then quickly added, “No need to bring it to my room or anything. Just tell me where I can get some and I’ll bring it myself.”

The houseboy let out a polite chuckle. “Oh, do not worry about that. You can draw a warm bath whenever you want. All bathrooms in the mansion are equipped with running water.”

Caspar furrowed his brow. He would appreciate it if people stopped saying words that made no sense.

“Simply pull on this cord and wait a couple of minutes,” the houseboy explained, sensing his confusion. “Warm water will soon start flowing.” Caspar scratched his head. He was not sure he was understanding correctly, or if the young boy was pranking him, but he guessed he had no choice but to believe his words. “Do you need me to demonstrate how to do it?” the houseboy offered.

“No, no, I’ll—I’ll figure it out. Thanks.”

Once the servant left, Caspar left his bag on the floor next to the bed and removed his boots. He wasted no time in unstrapping his armor and undressing completely, throwing his dirty clothes into a pile on the floor and placing his beat-up wooden charm on his desk. Getting it wet would be disastrous—the thing was so old it looked like it could crumble into dust any minute now. Then, towel in hand, he made his way into the bathroom and did as the young servant had instructed him to. 

Sure enough, a couple of minutes later, a stream of warm water started to come out of the faucet, steam soon filling the room. Caspar’s jaw dropped. He figured it must be some advanced spell, because he had never seen anything like it before. He watched the water slowly fill up the bathtub, completely entranced, until he noticed his toes were wet. To his horror, the bathtub was overflowing. Cursing under his breath, he pulled on the cord again. He let some of the water go down the drain and finally sat inside.

His body practically melted into a boneless pile of goo. He could not remember the last time he had taken a proper bath. In Galatea, he had no choice but to scrub himself clean with a washcloth if he wanted to be presentable. Still, it could have been worse. At least they were given some soap.

He started lathering up his body with a greenish bar of soap that smelled of Almyran pine needles (a pleasant aroma that reminded him of teatime with Linhardt). His fingers lingered on his back for a second as he felt up the laceration scars that littered his broad back. None of the old wounds on his body hurt physically—not anymore—but they all brought back really unpleasant memories. Some more than others.

He sighed and sank into the bathtub almost completely, leaving his face above water level so he could breathe.Despite how worn out he felt, Caspar noticed that his muscles were not even a little sore. He was afraid that sitting in that sentry station doing so little would have affected his endurance, but that did not seem to be the case. 

Still, peace was simply less demanding than war. He was not what he would call fat, but the shape of his body had definitely changed over the course of the last few years. It could not have been his diet; in fact, he had been eating much smaller portions than he was used to. Maybe he was not training hard enough, or not efficiently enough. 

He squeezed his tummy and wondered when he had started to let himself go. The long groan of frustration that came out of his mouth turned into bubbles as he submerged completely underwater.

Looks did not matter as long as he was still capable of fighting, which he was _sure_ he was. Fighting who, however… that he did not know. Things were calm in Enbarr. Whatever. He would work that out later. Axes. Arrows. Dented suits of armor. Thunder magic. No more of that. The war was over. Pitchforks. Torches. Bear traps. Makeshift whips. All of that was gone too. The uprisings in Galatea had ceased. The people no longer had the strength to fight anymore. They were tired and hungry. Dead.

_Dead quiet._

Caspar had not known peace and quiet since he was sixteen years old. This much calm was already making him restless. Calm was synonymous with danger. An ambush was coming. Any minute now. He had to stay vigilant. He could not afford not to. 

_Silence. Silence. Silence. Death. More silence._

Caspar opened his eyes abruptly, his survival instinct kicking in like an unstoppable force. 

He was running out of air. 

He emerged from the bathtub with a big splash, gasping and coughing up soapy water. His lungs and his eyes felt like they had caught on fire. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he inhaled and exhaled. 

It took him a couple of minutes to feel better again. So much for a relaxing bath. Now he was angry. He punched the water, and then slapped himself in the face as he hollered, “Stop messing around, Caspar!” His voice quivered from the intensity of the emotions that coursed through his veins. 

Deciding he was clean enough, he got out of the bathtub and unceremoniously wrapped a towel around his waist. He flopped on top of the bed, and lay there, motionless, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

In a couple of hours, he would be having dinner with Linhardt and his wife. Thinking about it felt strange. The whole situation felt strange, like a bad dream he could not wake up from no matter how hard he tried. 

Linhardt was a relatively well-adjusted member of high society. He had moved on with his life, and had settled down and found unexpected happiness in this new life of his. 

If that was not a sign that it was about time Caspar matured too, he did not know what it was.

Thinking so hard was giving him a headache. Too tired to fish his nightshirt out of his rucksack, he closed his eyes for a second. He remembered Linhardt mentioning that meditating like that helped put order to his scattered thoughts. 

The last thing he saw in his mind’s eye before falling asleep was the sight of Linhardt on the veranda, his back turned to him and a white cloud of smoke enveloping his head almost completely.

* * *

When he opened his eyes, Caspar had no idea what time it was.

It had gotten dark outside. He let out a yawn as he slowly sat up, stretching his arms and scratching his head. The first thing he noticed was that someone had thrown a blanket over him. For some reason, the idea of some servant walking in and seeing him sleeping naked on the bed did not bother him as much as it probably should.

What did bother him was not knowing how long he had been sleeping for. His stomach growled. It sure would have been nice if someone had woken him up for dinner.

 _Dinner_.

Caspar practically jumped out of bed, his heart beating a mile a minute. Dinner! Could it be that he had slept right through his date with his hosts? He cursed out loud, and started looking around the room frantically, not sure what he was looking for. 

“Calm down, Caspar!” he yelled, trying to keep his head cool. There was still a chance he could make it, but he had to move fast.

Clothes. He needed clothes. His eyes zeroed in on a stack of clean, neatly folded clothes that had been placed on his desk that turned out to be an elegant three-piece suit. A bit small for him, he thought as he squeezed into those particularly tight breeches, but it would have to do. He finished dressing as fast as humanly possible and darted out of his room, hoping he could remember which way it was to the dining hall. It was fine; he just had to find the grand staircase. He would know where to go from there.

This had to be what being Linhardt must feel like, he thought, hurriedly trying to tie his cravat as he ran down the empty hallways.

Caspar was back in the reception hall before he knew it. His heart beating fast, he looked around, completely lost. There were no servants around that he could ask for directions. Groaning, he took off in a random direction, but stopped dead in his tracks when a man’s voice called out to him.

“Soft, boy! Where do you think you are going, running around like a mad horse?”

Startled, he yelped, and quickly turned around to face the newcomer. It was just Hadrian, he quickly realized, feeling oddly relieved that he was there. His mentor had combed his long, ginger locks into a low ponytail and was wearing a form-fitting suit, not dissimilar to Caspar’s own—though he wore it infinitely more elegantly than Caspar would _ever_ be able to.

“I’m late,” Caspar gasped. “I’m late! I don’t know where the dining hall is, and I—”

“Late?”

At that point, the clock at the far end of the room chimed seven times. It must have been fixed, because it was not as loud as before. The pleasant mechanical sound did not help ease Caspar’s anxiety, but as soon as it stopped, Hadrian smiled. Caspar gave him a look of disbelief as the older soldier calmly placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “We are just in time. Come with me; let us not keep them waiting a minute longer.”

Caspar did not question his mentor’s better judgement, or the fact that he had included himself in his previous statement. Maybe Linhardt had invited him to dine with them too. It did not occur to Caspar that there might be other guests. The thought made him feel conflicted. More people meant he could potentially avoid any awkwardness at the table. Christina had seemed like a pleasant enough woman at first glance, but he was not sure he would click with her the way Linhardt had seemed sure he would. 

On the flip side, having more guests sit with them at the dining table also meant he would have the chance to embarrass himself in front of more people. His table manners had not exactly improved over the last few years, and he had never thought of himself as polite company. He groaned nervously, and clutched his belly. His stomach growled again, though this time he suspected that it was not because he was hungry.

As he mentally reminded himself not to slurp his wine, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in a full-body mirror they passed by. “Give me one second,” he said as he stopped dead in his tracks. He then licked his fingers and tried putting some order to his unruly hair. He wished he could have taken some time to groom himself after his bath. He would have combed his hair and trimmed the longer ends, and would have _definitely_ shaven his face—especially that pathetic moustache on his lip. There was little to be done about that now, though.

“Come here,” Hadrian said. Caspar obediently walked up to him, and let the older man fix his cravat for him. “There. Perfect.”

“I owe you one,” Caspar said, bashfully scratching the back of his neck. He knew the older man was only being polite, but if Hadrian thought he looked decent enough, then he need not have to worry too much about his appearance.

“Do not mention it,” he said, a warm look in his eyes as he led Caspar towards a set of large double doors at the end of the long corridor that a servant opened for them.

The dining hall was even larger than he remembered. How small it had seemed during his childhood, when he and Linhardt and would sit at the children’s table, far from the impossibly long table that occupied the center of the room. His gaze then turned upwards. An impressive chandelier bathed the room in its candlelight. Staring at it for too long made Caspar's head hurt, so he decided he would rather look at the still-life paintings that decorated the walls. But then he spied some movement out of the corner of his eye.

Christina was already seated at one of the ends of the table at the far end of the room, so far away from the door that he had not noticed her presence at first. As the doors were closed behind the newcomers, she rose from her seat, supporting herself on the dining table for a moment before standing perfectly straight and formally giving Hadrian and Caspar her welcome.

“It is an honor to have you here tonight,” she said, a gentle smile on her face as she bowed her head. Caspar could not help but notice she was wearing the same necklace and earrings he had seen on her person when they had first met. It sparkled just as bright in the candlelight as it did under the rays of the afternoon sun.

“The honor is all mine.”

“Yeah!” exclaimed Caspar, clearing his throat and adding, “It’s an honor.”

As Christina sat back down, two waiters guided them towards their assigned seats. It would seem they actually were the only guests there tonight. All of the chairs that were not going to be used that night had been taken away. After Caspar and Hadrian sat down, only one empty chair remained—the one that presided over the other end of the table.

“Milord is fashionably late, no doubt,” Hadrian explained. Caspar hummed to himself, unconvinced. Linhardt—or at least the old Linhardt—might have probably forgotten about the event, gotten distracted with something else, or both. Any of those options seemed more likely than what Hadrian had suggested.

They waited in silence for a couple of minutes. Caspar curiously examined the three pairs of forks that had been placed next to his plate, trying really hard to remember which one was the salad fork. Suddenly, the doors opened once more.

His nose stuck in a book, Linhardt briskly walked into the room and headed straight towards his seat. A little confused, Christina and Hadrian stood up to bow to him as protocol dictated, but before Caspar could do likewise, Linhardt spoke.

“No need for any of that. Please, keep eating.” He did not even deign to take his eyes off the page he was reading as he unceremoniously plopped down in his chair.

“Eating? We were all waiting for you, dear,” Christina laughed, a nervous little smile on her face. “You know dinner is not served until the man of the house arrives.”

“Hope he gets here soon, then. I’m starving.” Christina looked displeased for a brief moment, but she remained poised.

“You know I usually love your witty remarks, dear, but I should remind you that we have guests with us tonight. Let us all behave properly so we can enjoy this soirée together.” She then paused for a couple of seconds, and added, “That means not reading at the table, either.”

Linhardt finally looked up, and glanced at his guests and his wife, studying their faces for a moment. He snapped his book shut and put it down on the table, right next to his silver cutlery. His wife sighed, but said nothing else.

Dinner was promptly brought from the kitchens. In a matter of minutes, the table was overflowing with platters and dishes filled to the brim with wonderfully elaborate appetizers. Caspar realized then that his mouth was watering. 

Saying he was famished would be an understatement. It was not just that his stomach was empty—there was also the fact that he had not seen such delicious foods in a long, _long_ time. The military rations and the gruel that had filled his stomach for the last five years could not even begin to compare to the fancy dishes in front of his eyes. He was already reaching for the deviled eggs that had been placed right in front of him when Hadrian politely cleared his throat, his stern but understanding brown eyes trained on Caspar.

“Milady would like to say grace before we commence eating,” he calmly explained.

“Oh, of course,” Caspar said with a sheepish laugh.

He remained perfectly still and listened to the sound of Christina’s voice in silence. It had been ages since anyone had said grace in his presence. Though he had never quite understood why it was so important to thank someone who had not cooked the food or even harvested the ingredients, he fondly remembered how Mercedes and the other nuns would quietly pray before their meals.

Christina spoke to the Goddess in a way that reminded Caspar of his old classmate—with familiarity, but a deep sense of respect. Caspar had no idea she was Faithful, not that he had any problem with that. The Faithful, as the followers of the teachings of the Goddess had come to call themselves, were but a small religious minority these days—and even though Edelgard had stripped the Church of Seiros of most of its power, she was not so tyrannical that she would persecute its followers or ban the religion entirely like her detractors had speculated she would. The Reformed Church that had been reborn from the ashes of war was completely inoffensive. Definitely not a threat to the new order that ruled over Adrestia—no, the entire continent of Fódlan.

By the time Christina was done with her prayer, Caspar's appetite had subsided some, but it promptly came back the moment he opened his eyes. He happily helped himself to the food that had caught his attention first, and started shoveling it into his mouth with gusto.

“You are just as Linhardt described,” Christina commented as a waiter filled her goblet with water.

“Uh… thanks?” Caspar replied, his cheeks stuffed. He gulped, mentally berating himself for talking with his mouth full. He had been told a thousand times that he should not do it, but it never stuck.

“Oh! Was that rude of me to say?” she said, visibly flustered at the notion that she might have offended Caspar.

“No, no! I mean, whatever Linhardt has told you is probably true,” he replied, a carefree grin on his face. A waitress suddenly appeared at his side and poured him a glass of rosé wine. He followed her with his eyes as she went around the table and filled Linhardt’s glass as well. Caspar locked eyes with him, a fuzzy feeling in the pit of his stomach as he watched Linhardt put the glass against his lips and take a long sip.

“And he has told me plenty! I hear you two have been childhood friends since you were… how old now? Eight?”

“Six, Milady,” Hadrian politely helped her. “Why, I still remember the day their fathers introduced them to each other.” 

As Hadrian told Christina that particular story, Linhardt noticed Caspar’s eyes on him and glanced at him over the rim of his glasses. The warm feeling in his stomach grew the longer they stared at each other in silence, like it was some sort of endurance contest. Caspar admitted his defeat. He averted his eyes and focused his attention on Christina, ignoring the chill that ran down his spine.

“That’s right!” Caspar interjected. “Lin and I go _way_ back.” He then reached for his glass with the intention of downing it in one gulp. Some alcohol would surely help him loosen up a little.

“Having your dear childhood friend by your side again must be lovely, dear,” Christina said, a dreamy look in her warm eyes. “I wager you two must be almost as close as brothers.”

A smug ghost of a smile appeared on Linhardt’s face. “Definitely _closer_ than brothers.” 

Caspar resisted the urge to spit out his drink at that particular remark. Instead, he tried to swallow and act casual, but immediately regretted that decision. He grabbed his napkin almost on reflex and loudly coughed it all up, his face turning red, and then purple as he struggled to breathe. He finally managed to get it all out. Winded, he looked up; his hosts stared at him with worry painted all over their faces, and Hadrian had even stood up from his chair, ready to assist.

“‘m fine,” Caspar finally said, his voice raspy and weak. “Went down the wrong pipe.”

“Goodness, are you sure you are alright?”

“Yeah. I just… I need to go to the bath—uh, excuse myself for a moment,” Caspar mumbled as he stood up from his chair and rushed out of the dining hall, escorted by the servant that had opened the door for them before. 

He waited outside while Caspar entered the bathroom, stumbling on his way towards the sink. He rolled up his sleeves and splashed some clean water on his face with his hands. He then reached for the hand towel, but stopped when he heard some whispers on the other side of the door.

“... to the dining hall. I will accompany our guest on our way back.”

“Yes, Milord.”

Moments later, Linhardt pushed open the door, locking eyes with Caspar for a moment before promptly turning around and watching the corridor from the doorway. Once he had made sure that the servant was gone and that no one else was around, he closed the door and slowly approached Caspar with an indecipherable expression in his eyes. There was an awkward silence between them until Linhardt finally spoke.

“I’m sorry for earlier. It was in bad taste.”

“Huh?” Caspar frowned. Linhardt gave off that same burnt herbal smell from before. 

“I know I shouldn’t joke about that sort of stuff in front of everyone.”

“Oh! That?” Caspar cut him off. Sober or not, Linhardt’s apology seemed genuine. He decided not to bring up how weird Linhardt’s prolonged stares were making him feel. Linhardt was probably not doing it on purpose, and Caspar did not want to make a big deal out of it. “No need to apologize.”

“If you say so.”

He stepped aside to make room for Linhardt in front of the sink, and watched as he undid his messy low ponytail and pushed all of his hair to the side, exposing his pale neck. Linhardt then rolled up his sleeves, dipped his fingertips in the water, and used them to comb his hair in front of the mirror. Caspar nervously squeezed the towel and averted his eyes while Linhardt fixed his hair. Witnessing such a candid, personal moment felt inappropriate for some reason.

He closed his eyes. He was not sure when the next time they would be alone together would be, and this could be his only chance to talk things through with Linhardt and tackle whatever unresolved tensions might get in the way of their friendship. Gathering the courage to bring up such a delicate topic, he spoke.

“Linhardt. I need to talk to you about something.”

“Whatever it is that you want to say, you can say in front of everyone else,” Linhardt replied, making his way towards the door. Caspar took a step forward, and grabbed Linhardt's hand before he could reach for the doorknob. That got him interested. He turned around and faced Caspar, a quizzical look in his eyes.

“I can't. Well—I don't think I can,” he said, his grip tightening around his host’s slender fingers. If he was squeezing too hard, Linhardt did not say anything. “You haven’t told Christina we used to… you and I had…” 

He hesitated to give their past romantic relationship a name. What had Linhardt been for him back then? Back then, Caspar liked to think of him as his life partner. He was the person he wanted to spend the rest of his days with, after all, and he could not see things happening differently. Linhardt must have felt something similar if he was willing to abandon his family and his home to go with him, but clearly things had changed a lot since then. 

The message must have gotten across though, because Linhardt shook his head. “You and I are the only ones at that table who know. Unless you told good old Hadrian.”

Caspar shook his head vehemently. “‘course not!”

The only people that were aware that he and Linhardt had been romantically involved were his closest friends. It was safer that way. Ever-obsessed with Crests and status, nobles looked down on people like them. Noble children were little more than worthless if they could not produce an heir, and were considered an embarrassment if they could not behave like the young men and women society perceived them to be. Caspar had never had any prospects of marriage anyways, but he remained cautious. He had heard some real horror stories, and he still shuddered to think how his own brother might react if he ever learned the truth.

Caspar assumed that Linhardt had not told Christina that he was not a man, either. He balled his fists involuntarily. It was not fair how everyone in his own house treated him like he _was_. Milord this, dear husband that. Caspar felt the urgent need to let everyone know what Linhardt had once opened up to him about—that he hated those words, that they made him feel just as uncomfortable as if they were to call him “madam.” It should not be that difficult to understand.

His train of thought was interrupted when he felt a gentle hand on his bicep. Feeling as though he had been struck by a bolt of thunder magic, he looked up, and was met with the most beautiful and sad sight he had seen in a while. The soft smile on Linhardt’s lips was gorgeous, but it did not reach the dark pools of his blue eyes. 

“It’ll all be fine, Caspar. You’re here now with me.” Caspar swallowed, and for a moment, he had to wonder if Linhardt could read his thoughts. Caspar had always been told he was an open book. The question he had wanted to ask once again vanished into thin air, unsaid and unanswered. 

“We should get back now,” Caspar said, his throat dry, “before they start wondering what’s taking us so long.”

Linhardt nodded and removed his hand from Caspar, the pleasant warmth of his touch lingering where his hand had alighted. The two made their way back in utter silence, walking side by side with heavy steps. The long hallways carried the sounds that came from the dining hall really well. Hadrian’s voice grew louder and clearer the closer they got to the closed doors.

“... only an Aegir in name. I swore myself to serving House Hevring many years ago now, and I do not regret my decision.”

“You are a most loyal retainer, Sir Hadrian,” Christina commented. Her voice sounded just as soft, but much less chipper than before. “My husband is very lucky to have you—as was his father before him.”

There was a pause that neither of them dared to interrupt by barging in. Caspar looked down at his feet, wondering what his mentor’s silence hid at that specific moment. The memory of how much pain Hadrian had been in because of the death of his liege was still fresh in his mind. Caspar had lent him his ear back then, had done his best to console him, even if at the time he did not know much about him. 

An unlikely friendship would eventually blossom between the old knight and the young warrior, a friendship Caspar was eternally grateful for. Who knew where he would currently find himself if the two had never met. A much darker place, for sure.

“Thank you for your kind words, Milady,” Hadrian finally replied, his voice quivering slightly. Linhardt and Caspar gave each other a meaningful look, and silently agreed that it was time to go back in. They were welcomed back with total normalcy, smiles on Christina and Hadrian’s faces as they swiftly changed the topic of conversation.

The appetizers had been taken away. Four large plates, covered with their corresponding metal cloches, had been promptly set on the table. Four waiters then simultaneously uncovered the food once everyone was back at their seats.

“The main entrée is grilled Queen Loach fillet, served on a bed of caramelized greens with a side of aromatic Dagdan rice,” proudly announced the maître d’. Caspar felt glad he had eaten plenty earlier. He could not care less about the quality of the food when the _quantity_ left much to be desired. Christina was the only one who had been given a considerably larger portion, which made sense. She was eating for two.

“By the way, dear,” said Christina, politely dabbing her mouth on the corner of her napkin, her crimson lipstick remaining perfectly intact. “I forgot to mention that I received a letter from my uncle this morning.”

“Your _uncle_ wrote? What’s the occasion?”

Christina blinked slowly, perplexed, but unaffected by Linhardt’s sardonic comment. “He says Auntie and my cousins send their regards. It made me very happy to read that Mother has been feeling better, as well.”

Now that she mentioned her family, Caspar realized that Linhardt had never mentioned in his letters which house his wife hailed from. He mentally went through the list of all of Adrestia’s noble houses, trying to make an educated guess. She could _not_ be a Vestra, as she did not look undead. Maybe she was a Gerth. He knew the Duke had a lot of children, but could not remember if any of his daughters were in the same age range. What about House Aegir? Her freckled face vaguely reminded him of the likes of Hadrian, or even Ferdinand. But either his mentor or his old friend would have mentioned it to him at some point if that were the case.

“It has been a long time since your family last visited. They were here for the wedding… and that’s about it,” Linhardt said, arching his eyebrows. 

“Well, Uncle has been quite busy managing the territory, as you know,” Christina said, playing coyly with her food. “But they are making all the necessary arrangements to be here in time for the birth of our child.”

Linhardt simply nodded, as though taking a mental note, but said nothing else.

The rest of the evening went on without a hitch. After dinner, the four of them moved to the reception hall, where they relaxed on the couches by the fireplace. Caspar, Hadrian, and Linhardt each enjoyed a glass of liquor while Christina sipped on a cup of warm tea, and soon they all found themselves in the middle of a much more lively conversation. 

Maybe it was the effects of the alcohol, but Caspar felt much more relaxed, and could tell Linhardt’s mood also improved as soon as the topic of family was dropped. He even let out an endeared laugh when Caspar finally inquired about the “magical” pipes he had seen before in the bathroom.

“Not magic. Technology!” Christina said, a glint in her eyes. Caspar had seen that same look on her face before. It was the same look Linhardt would get when he was about to start rambling about his special interests. 

Caspar listened attentively as Christina explained in layman’s terms that the pipes were connected to the boiler room in the basement. He did not quite understand the part where she talked about the complicated pump system that allowed it to flow upwards, but then again, there were a lot of things Caspar did not understand. Christina also told him about the clock, which turned out to be a useful device to measure time.

“We have known about the technology to create these inventions for a long time now,” Christina went on to explain. “A ballista utilizes a system of gears and weights that is not dissimilar to the one that allows the machinery inside the clock to work.”

“I have heard that this field of research is practically at its infancy, and thus, very costly,” Hadrian interjected. “These commodities you hear of, Caspar, are only available to the nobility and a select number of very rich commoners.” Well, that explained why none of those inventions had reached the county of Galatea. He wondered what else had changed in the city of Enbarr in the span of five years.

“Right you are. Our Emperor Edelgard is doing her best to bolster the sciences, though. It is fascinating how—oh, but look at me rambling! I am sorry. I know this is not a very interesting topic.” 

Linhardt had also neglected to mention this intellectual facet of hers in his letters, and Caspar found himself slowly realizing that he did not know much at all about her. The couple appeared to be opposites in almost every other aspect, but it made sense that they would have at least _something_ in common. He could not picture Linhardt choosing to spend his life with someone who was not an intellectual peer.

Caspar gritted his teeth as he felt a painful jab in his chest. He shook his head, and forced himself to smile as he said, “Rambling’s fine! You’re very passionate, and you clearly know your stuff!”

“I… would not say I am _passionate_. I simply find it intriguing,” she replied, averting her gaze bashfully. Caspar found her reaction strange. Then again, it had been a long, strange day overall. 

He was starting to feel a little tired from all these ups and downs.

* * *

The clock had struck ten by the time the Hevrings decided that the soirée had to come to an end. Hadrian and Caspar thanked their guests for the opportunity to have dinner together, and returned to their dormitories on the third floor. Linhardt and Christina went straight towards their room.

The lady headed straight for her boudoir the moment they arrived, while Linhardt all but collapsed on top of the bed, lazily kicking off his shoes and burying his face in his pillow.He had been feeling lightheaded for a while now, and he suspected it was not just because of the liquor. 

“How did you enjoy this evening, darling?” Christina asked as she removed her makeup.

Linhardt gave a non-committal grunt for an answer, and flipped himself over. “It was nice, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“You know I'm not a fan of social events. I find large gatherings…” he yawned, “... positively exhausting.”

“Four people hardly qualifies as a _large_ _gathering_ ,” Christina said with a snarky smile on her face. She headed towards the wardrobe and grabbed her nightgown and Linhardt's nightshirt.

“Five,” said Linhardt, facing away from his wife to undress. “You forgot the baby.”

As he unbuttoned his shirt, he felt her arms wrap around his neck from behind. Linhardt felt himself turn to ice under her touch. He should have already grown used to the affectionate little gestures his wife was so fond of, but he could not. Not when the memory of a much stronger pair of arms enveloping his body was still so fresh in his mind.

“You are too good to be true, Linny,” said Christina.

“ _You_ need to raise the bar,” Linhardt retorted, turning around to face her.

She let out an amused little chuckle as she got under the covers, unaware of the discomfort her compliment had caused him. Linhardt clicked his tongue. He had always disliked empty praises. He hardly could be called a good person, let alone a good spouse. 

It was no secret that Linhardt was not in love with his wife. Save for a few exceptions, arranged marriages were always the same. It was not about love, it was about power. The husband and wife needed only to live together, bear children, and keep up appearances. It was almost ritualistic.

The problem was that Christina tried so hard to earn his affection, even behind closed doors, that Linhardt knew for certain that she must have developed some sort of romantic feelings for him, feelings he did not feel himself capable of returning. The two did not always see eye to eye, but Linhardt had come to think of her as a friend, and he truly cared about her. She was an intelligent young woman with a smile that rivaled the sun. She managed to stay optimistic despite how difficult her life had been. The untimely death of her older sister had made her go from a carefree second daughter with no prospects of marriage to the only heiress of her family. Linhardt felt sorry for her. He would never wish such a fate on anyone.

For that reason, Linhardt did not feel brave enough to tell her to stop showering him with affection. He had learned to tolerate it to an extent, or maybe he had just become desensitized to it. Who knew. Maybe she would eventually win him over. Maybe one day he would wake up in the morning and realize that his wounded heart was finally beginning to heal. A painless existence, even one that had been thrust upon him, did not sound like such a terrible fate. 

Maybe conformity held the key to his happiness. How ironic.

“I really meant what I said. I could not ask for a better life.” Linhardt snapped out of it as Christina rested her head on his chest. “We are going to be parents in less than two months! Are you nervous?”

“More than I can say,” he croaked, a shiver running down his spine. “And I’m not even the one who will be giving birth. Oh… I feel faint just thinking about… it…”

Christina giggled, endeared. “Do not worry! You know my aunt will be there to help with the delivery. If she managed to bring healthy triplets into the world, then I have nothing to fear.” She lovingly started playing with Linhardt’s hair, twisting the long evergreen strands around her fingers.

“I know. I know.” 

Linhardt grabbed his book and opened it to the page where he had left his bookmark. Maybe reading would help distract him from his troubled thoughts, and from the pounding of his heart as he recalled the memory of rough, calloused fingers running through his hair. 

“Linny? I am going to blow out the candle now.”

“Fine by me.” Linhardt promptly got out of bed without protesting and sat on the windowsill couch. He adjusted his glasses, and practically pressed the open book against his nose. Moonlight was not an ideal light source, but it would have to do.

Christina rolled her eyes. “Just come to bed, please.” She patted the empty space Linhardt had just left. “How long has it been since you have had a full night's sleep?”

Linhardt scoffed. “A what now?”

Christina sighed in exasperation. “You work too hard. Your new position as a Minister has only increased your workload, and I know that leaves little time for your hobbies. But even so…”

Linhardt averted his eyes. He could never tell Christina that more than half the time he spent locked away in his office he spent procrastinating, and the other half zoning out, more often than not with the help of his smoking herbs. The reports Hubert had requested of him were starting to pile up on his desk. He cringed at the thought of facing the draconian Minister of the Imperial Household during the next council.

Linhardt said nothing as he slumped his shoulders and, resigned, he dragged himself back to bed. He took off his glasses, putting them on his bedside table, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Thank you, Linny. I am—ow!” 

“What was that?”

“Nothing. The baby just kicked me. It caught me by surprise, is all.”

Linhardt sucked in a breath as he timidly placed his hand on her bump. He wondered how this child would fit into the equation. Some people had told him that a baby could sometimes fix things in a marriage, but Linhardt was not so sure that was true, or even fair for the poor creature. 

Like with everything else, he would have to wait and see. So far, not even the fact that this baby was his own blood had managed to make him any more excited about their arrival. Maybe there really _was_ something wrong with him. Any other parent would be ecstatic, but Linhardt felt neutral at best.

It was complicated. In the past, the concept of having a lot of children had aroused his scientific curiosity. But that had been just that; an idea, a hypothetical experiment born out of boredom and ignorance. The reality was that conceiving just this one child had been more emotionally and mentally taxing than anything he would ever want to put himself through. 

Linhardt still felt uneasy whenever he thought about his and Christina’s first and only time together. After much insistence from his nagging mother and political family, he had finally agreed to having sex with his wife, just to get things over with. The memories of that night were fuzzy in his mind. He must have been really out of it, but he had to have been doing something right if he had managed to get her pregnant. 

He felt a cold shiver run down his spine, followed by a fit of anxiety-induced nausea. He swiftly removed his hand from her belly, and tucked himself into bed. He mumbled a weak “Goodnight” as Christina kissed his cheek. 

The candle was blown out, and after that, there was only silence and darkness.

* * *

Caspar’s knighting ceremony took place exactly five days after his arrival. 

To say that Caspar was relieved the day had finally come would be an understatement. Sitting around in the mansion doing nothing all day was starting to get on his nerves. Life as an upscale noble just was not for him, as he had concluded during lunch on the second day—a truth he had known for quite some time now.

He had tried to keep busy. Exploring the facilities and mingling with the knights was not a bad way to kill time. The sooner he got used to his new work environment and its rules, the better. He was not going to waste this chance.

A couple of hours before sunup on the day of the ceremony, Hadrian knocked on Caspar’s door and handed him his new uniform—an off-white gambeson, a mail shirt, and a teal tunic with light yellow accents, the same outfit all the other knights wore. 

Caspar put extra effort into properly grooming for the ceremony. Seeing his cleanly shaven face in the mirror felt strange and a little sad. It was almost as if his younger self were looking right back at him. _Almost_. Caspar did not recognize himself in those awful dark circles under his eyes. The sight of them was actually quite jarring. 

It was during that quiet moment of realization that Caspar decided that, starting the next day, he was not going to bother shaving anymore. The scruffy look was not so bad anyways, he told himself as he put on his clothes. It made him look manlier, more mature. Maybe one day he could grow a full beard, or perhaps a mustache like Hadrian’s.

After he finished getting ready, Hadrian escorted him towards the place where the ceremony would be held.

It was no surprise that there was a chapel inside the massive Hevring estate. The members of the house of the Minister of Domestic Affairs were known to be people of faith, perhaps only second to House Varley. Their piety stemmed from tradition; all past heads of the house had been blessed with the Crest of Saint Cethleann, and all of them had been excellent wielders of Faith magic.

The temple was much smaller in size than the church in downtown Enbarr that Caspar had visited a couple of times, but it was still large enough to hold about a hundred people. Many of the guests already waited at the front doors. However, Caspar did not enter the church through them right away. Instead, he was guided through a back door that led to a small side room where the final piece that would complete his outfit awaited him: a gilded—and quite impractical—ceremonial suit of armor.

“It’s just for the ceremony,” Hadrian said, noticing his mentee’s discomfort as he helped him put the shoulderpads on. “We will find you something nice at the armory later.” 

With that promise, Caspar and Hadrian stepped into the crowded chapel.

The pews were mostly occupied by knights and members of Linhardt’s entourage, though there were some important-looking people that looked to have come on behalf of other noble houses in Adrestia, as indicated by the banners they flew. Caspar also recognized Christina and Ada sitting in the front row. Finally, his eyes caught sight of Linhardt, standing alone in the center of the chamber, in front of the altar.

Light poured from the stained glass windows that decorated the tall walls, a faceless young woman with seafoam locks serving as the central figure of the central window. Linhardt was bathed in the rainbow light, his elegant white tunic fluttering in the breeze that came through the open doors. Such a daunting sight made Caspar think that Linhardt looked like a divine creature of sorts, like the ones he had seen depicted on the murals in Garreg Mach cathedral—beautiful and radiant, but distant.

The second thing he noticed was the ceremonial sword he clumsily wielded in his right hand, and the way he absentmindedly rubbed the gilded hilt as he waited for the ceremony to begin.

Trumpets suddenly echoed throughout the chapel as Hadrian announced Caspar’s arrival, and all of the guests stood up at once. With hundreds of eyes on him, Caspar walked down the aisle, the journey seemingly eternal until he finally reached the altar and knelt before Linhardt. He dared to look up at him for a moment, and was met with the sight of Linhardt’s beautiful, sad blue eyes staring right back at him.

Hadrian subtly cleared his throat, and Caspar snapped back to reality. He lowered his head in front of who would soon become his liege, and held his breath as Linhardt raised the sword above his head and gently tapped his shoulders with the blade.

“Caspar von Bergliez,” Linhardt spoke, his voice reverberating throughout the chapel, “for thine bravery in battle… and for thine years of honorable service to…” 

He paused for a moment, nervously looking around the room. Someone let out a small, impatient cough, prompting Linhardt to continue. “... and for thine years of loyal and honorable service to the Empire, I hereby dub thee a Knight of House Hevring.”

“It is a honor to—”

“And… I… I also!” Linhardt suddenly interrupted as Caspar was about to raise his head. “I grant you the title of Personal Guard of Lady Christina von Hevring and our child.”

His words caused quite the stir among the crowd. 

Caspar was almost tempted to stand up and ask Linhardt what he meant by that. Personal guard? That was not what they had discussed. He had basically just been granted the same status as Hadrian, and that felt all kinds of wrong.

The ceremony continued after all the guests calmed down. After its conclusion, everyone exited the chapel en masse through the front doors while Linhardt himself made a beeline for the back room, avoiding as many people as possible on the way there. Caspar stood up, completely lost, and watched as Ada and Hadrian followed their liege. He decided he should join them too. He wanted to ask Linhardt a lot of questions. Someone stopped him before he could take another step, though.

“Caspar! What is happening?” Christina’s voice surprised him as she approached him.

“I… I have no idea.”

“I certainly did not expect this turn of events. Did you know Linhardt was planning to put you in charge of my safety?”

“I’m not even sure he _planned_ it.” Caspar knew the way Linhardt acted well enough to tell that this definitely was an impulse decision. Another reason why he wanted to confront him about it. Not sure what the right course of action would be, he told Christina to come with him. Agitated voices came from inside.

“... with all due respect, Milord,” Ada said, her tone polite but forceful, “there is a number of people who would be great candidates for this position. I can recommend a few names. Second Lieutenant Becker, for instance, would perform excellently as her personal guard.”

“I implore you to consider the boy—Caspar’s feelings too,” Hadrian interjected. “You know him better than I do, but even I know that he would not want this position if there are other people who might deserve it more.”

“Is that true?” Caspar asked, his voice getting caught in his throat as he pushed the door open. Linhardt raised his head.

“There are no such people, Caspar,” he sighed. Linhardt then gave the Captain of the Knights a defiant look. He addressed her when he spoke again after a short pause. “There is no one else I would trust more to take good care of my family than Caspar. And if experience is what concerns you, let me remind you that he has seen more combat than all of your lieutenants have in all of their lives. Surely you’re not questioning the truth of my reasons?”

“I am questioning the _objectivity_ of your decision. I know for a fact that Caspar von Bergliez is a close friend of yours. People are going to _talk_.”

Ada spoke unflinchingly, as though Caspar were not in the room with them. He lowered his head. Asking Linhardt to admit him into the Knights had already been a difficult decision on its own. Getting such an important position right away would only make people think he could have never risen through the ranks on his own merit. There was nothing more frustrating or annoying to him than that.

“She is right, Linhardt. I can’t accept this.” He shook his head, and added, more quietly, “But you’re not gonna let me refuse, are you?”

Linhardt stood in silence for a moment, a pensive expression on his face. “I… I’m not going to force you to accept this job.” Caspar looked up at that. So it was up to him to decide, after all? Well, that made things much easier, then. “But Caspar… please. Give it a couple of months at least. See for yourself that I am not giving you this position out of pity. I am giving it to you because ou are the bravest man I know. You… you work well under pressure, and you are a quick thinker. I trust no one else to take good care of the people I care about.”

Caspar felt his cheeks heat up. After all this time, he still did not know how to take genuine praise from Linhardt. 

“I for one think it is a great decision,” Christina suddenly interjected. “I have not known Caspar for a long time, but he has my trust as well. I still have not forgotten how he saved me from that fall. Things could have ended badly had he not intervened.”

“I was just at the right place at the right moment!” Caspar exclaimed, bashfully rubbing the back of his neck. “There’s a big difference between that and asking me to be her _guard_!”

“Milord, may I ask why you think Lady Christina needs special protection in the first place?” Hadrian said. “I have served your family well thus far, have I not?”

“I simply do not think it is fair that I get to have a personal guard and she doesn’t.” Christina, who had stayed silent, smiled with her eyes. “We live in difficult times, Hadrian. Fódlan is still recovering from… a terrible, terrible war. We live in peace for now, but do we know it will last?”

Hadrian sucked in a breath of air. “Milord… is there something you know that you are not telling us? Has the Emperor or the other ministers said anything we do not know?”

“Nothing like that. I simply would sleep better at night knowing that there is someone out there who is looking after her and our child. No offense, Hadrian, but you are just one man. There is only so much you can do on your own.”

Hadrian nodded sagely at that statement.

“I am still not fully convinced, but…” Ada sighed. “I am honor-bound to accept Milord’s decisions, despite my personal feelings on the matter at hand.” 

“Don’t get me wrong, Captain. I do appreciate your cautious skepticism,” said Linhardt with a playful smile, “except when it inconveniences me.”

Ada simply rolled her eyes at Linhardt’s humorous attempt at releasing the tension.

It sounded like Caspar’s decision had been made for him. If accepting the position would make everyone’s lives easier, then it was the only sensible thing to do. He had come to Linhardt for a reason. His need to feel useful and do the right thing was stronger than ever, in spite of all the mistakes he had made along the way… or perhaps _because_ of them. 

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Thank you, Caspar. I knew I could count on you.” A smile of relief spread across Linhardt’s face. Caspar felt his heart miss a beat. Linhardt looked the prettiest when he smiled sincerely. “Starting tomorrow, the Captain will be personally in charge of your instruction. She will teach you everything you need to know to become an elite Knight of Hevring.” He then turned to Ada and said, “Let us discuss the details later, Captain. Preferably somewhere roomier and less musty.”

The church was completely empty by the time everyone exited the crammed back room. All of the guests were likely waiting at the mansion for the banquet and toast that followed the knighting ceremony. Caspar did not feel like joining the party, but he probably had no other choice seeing as how he was the guest of honor. 

“I hope with all of my heart that Lord Hevring knows what he is doing.” The Captain barely made eye contact with him, and her tone seemed more severe than usual, but Caspar assumed this was her own way of welcoming him under her wing. “See you tomorrow at the training grounds. Be there by sunup, and do _not_ be late.” 

She then turned on her heels and left without another word. Caspar sighed as Hadrian gave him a friendly pat on the back.

“Good luck, kid. You are going to need it.”


	4. Chapter 3: Underneath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Caspar speaks out about some terrible events that took place during his leave, Linhardt finds himself wanting to run away from the pain once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No specific content warnings for this chapter that haven't already been mentioned in the main tags, though there is a brief passage that talks more in detail about Linhardt's addiction.
> 
> As always, thanks to Saringold for beta-reading this chapter!

“Dodge now!”

“Gah!” 

Caspar stumbled backwards, frantically waving his lance in front of him in a desperate attempt to deflect the flurry of spells the Captain fired at him. It was all in vain. The dulled ice shards Ada had hurled his way hit him across the chest, throwing him off balance. A quick gust of wind magic finished the job. The novice knight was swept off his feet, and he landed on the dusty ground with a loud _thud_.

Pounding his fist on the ground, Caspar was forced to admit his defeat. 

He stood up slowly, digging the tip of his lance in the ground and gripping tightly onto the shaft for support. His body felt simultaneously sore and numb after the onslaught of spells he had taken. He limped towards the benches on the sidelines of the arena and grabbed his canteen, chugging down the rest of the pure water that was still left inside.

“One more time,” Caspar grunted, his voice husky with exhaustion as he wiped his chin with his sleeve.

“I think that was enough practice for the day,” Ada said from her corner of the arena, nonchalantly dusting off her tunic.

“No!” Caspar exclaimed, running towards her. “Captain, we were just warming up!”

“A good knight should know his limits. What good is it going to do you if you overexert yourself?” she curtly replied as she grabbed her personal belongings. She made an attempt to walk away, but Caspar blocked her path.

“Captain, please. I can do one more round.”

Ada furrowed her brow. Such little regard for her authority was simply unacceptable. It had barely been a couple of weeks since he had been appointed as a knight, and he was already showing worrisome levels of disregard towards authority. She opened her mouth, determined to give Caspar his last warning before she would be forced to discipline him, but before she could say anything, the front gates opened and a tall, slender figure clad in an elegant blue tunic waltzed in.

Linhardt's unexpected arrival caused quite the stir among the crowd that had gathered at the training grounds that morning. The other knights all stopped what they were doing, bulging eyes following their liege as he casually strolled along the sidelines, hands in his pockets, his lit pipe caught between his lips.

“Lord Hevring!” Ada said, casting her initial shock aside in order to properly salute him. Caspar clumsily imitated her, bowing his head respectfully. Linhardt’s expressionless blue eyes met his as soon as he raised his head again. “Sir, what are you doing here?”

Linhardt said nothing at first as he sat down cross-legged on one of the benches. He grabbed his pipe, exhaled a puff of white smoke, and put it down right next to him, not even bothering to put it out. Then, to Caspar and Ada’s bewilderment, he put his hand in his pocket and produced a gold coin. “I heard there was a tournament going on, and I was wondering if this could be my chance to win big.”

One of the knights stifled an amused chuckle as Linhardt toyed with the coin, a relaxed smile on his face.

“There is no such tournament. And betting is strictly prohibited in these training grounds,” she said, loud and clear, as though she were trying to dissuade the younger knights from getting any funny ideas. Linhardt clicked his tongue in feigned displeasure at the sad news. “I was simply sparring with Caspar. During the week, he trains hard in the ways of the Knights of Hevring, and on the weekends, I devote two hours of my time to personally gauge his progress.”

“It’s not enough!” Caspar interjected. “I’m never gonna get the hang of this thing at this rate!” He gripped the shaft of his wooden lance so firmly that his knuckles turned white. Linhardt raised an eyebrow. He cocked his head slightly and shot a quizzical look at Caspar. 

“Why learn the lance now? Did you forget your axe back in Galatea or something?”

“He insisted on it, sir,” Ada explained. “Earlier this week, he also inquired about taking riding lessons, as well as honing his magic skills, though I am afraid he is not making much progress in this last front. He possesses… little aptitude for the arts.”

“Are you training to become a mounted mage, Caspar?” Linhardt sighed.

Caspar stood in silence for a moment. “Thought I could learn some new skills. That’s it.” He then turned around and started to take quick jabs at an invisible enemy before Linhardt could ask any more questions. 

The young count hummed pensively for a moment, and then spoke in a perfectly calm manner. “Fine then. Show me your spearwork.”

“You want to watch?” Caspar stopped, and turned around to look at Linhardt in disbelief. His friend was not the kind of person who enjoyed this sort of thing. Caspar could count on one hand the number of times Linhardt had set foot in the Academy training grounds. That he was now willing to watch him train made him feel all sorts of nervous. It would be different if he were brawling, or using his axe—that way, he could really show off in front of Linhardt—but he did not have any other choice. The Knights of Hevring specialized in mounted combat, and if he wanted to fit in, he would have to learn how to fight like them. Since magic was decidedly a lost cause, then he ought to at least learn his way around a lance.

“I didn’t come all the way here for no reason. Come on. Show me something good.” 

Caspar nodded, suddenly feeling a burst of energy coursing through his veins. He did not question the fact that Linhardt probably had better things to do than waste his precious time at the training grounds and that he was definitely procrastinating. He was just excited to have him there. 

“Alright!” Caspar exclaimed, twirling his lance and walking towards his starting position. Ada promptly returned to hers, a good five feet across from where Caspar stood.

“Try to dodge this time. Then, attack just like we practiced,” Ada said, conjuring a small ice ball in the palm of her hand as she elegantly circled the arena, studying her opponent’s movements with calculating eyes. 

Caspar’s breathing quickened. Being told what he had to do was just frustrating. Of course he knew what he had to do! The captain was capable of conjuring a near impassable wall with her ice and wind magic, but her impenetrable defense had a weak point; she might be a seasoned mage, but not even she could keep slinging spells indefinitely. Caspar had been quick to identify Ada’s attack patterns, and had determined that his best shot at getting the upper hand on her was dodging until her magic tapered off and then utilizing the brief seconds while she readied her next spell to get close. 

It was a relatively easy strategy to pull off, even with a weapon he was not overly skilled with; however, it was a strategy that he would not be using any time soon, for it would completely defeat the purpose of training against possibly the most powerful mage in the Order.

Linhardt mumbled something to himself, but Caspar could not quite make out what he was saying, not with his heartbeat ringing loudly in his ears. He had taken several direct magical blows during this last bout, and pure water could only do so much for someone with as little affinity for magic as him. Being so close to his limit probably meant that his plan was working, though. That familiar burn in his muscles was always a sign that he was doing something right.

Smiling cockily, he readied his weapon and adopted a defensive posture. Linhardt shook his head, but he chose to ignore that. “Don't hold back now,” he growled.

Ada sighed as she channeled more and more energy around her hand. Magical fractals of ice swirled around the snowball, which started to glow. The light was blinding, but Caspar would not be intimidated. Letting out a wild cry, he charged at her head on.

A couple of snowballs hit him in the shoulder, the sting of magic sending shivers down his spine and making him falter for a second. Something inside of him—something almost primeval—screamed him to dodge the rest. Blinded by the pain, he obeyed his instincts and deftly avoided most of the snowballs that were headed his way.

“Yes, good!” Linhardt cried, pumping his fist in the air. 

Caspar was almost taken aback by such a sudden display of emotion. Linhardt was there, and he was cheering for him, but he could not allow himself to change his strategy now, no matter how good the praise felt. He groaned loudly, gritting his teeth as he dug in his heels, ready to try again. Ada was already preparing her next spell, and from the way her hand glowed, it had to be a strong one. He gulped. Not sure if his body would be able to resist, he took off running and bolted straight towards her. He would not dodge; he would not run away this time! He was almost right there when Ada, who had adopted a defensive posture, jerked her arm and sent a powerful blast of wind magic his way. 

Caspar was sent flying backwards. He flew a good thirty feet through the air before his trajectory was stopped short by one of the pillars that surrounded the arena. On impact, he hit his head against the hard concrete. Pain coursing through his entire body, he fell limply to the ground.

Everything stopped making sense. Caspar could no longer tell up from down, left from right. His head was spinning, or perhaps he himself was spinning. Nothing in his blurry field of vision made sense, only vague shapes and colors dancing around in the hazy vortex. The whole world seemed to have gone eerily quiet, too. Only muffled echoes managed to break through the oppressive silence that made his head feel bloated.

“...spar!”

He thought he heard something that sounded like his name, whispered to him by a familiar voice. A voice that was going to make the pain go away. 

A voice that was going to make things better. 

Soon afterwards, he felt his body being moved around with little resistance on his behalf. Caspar believed he was now facing up. Yes… up felt right. His head was no longer pressed against the cold hard ground. He was now lying somewhere warm and comfortable, and a blinding light accosted his eyes for a brief moment before a large shadow obscured most of it. He blinked repeatedly, trying to dispel the haze that clouded his eyes.

Whatever that shadow was, it was _speaking_ to him.

“Caspar! Can you hear me?” the voice insisted. 

Caspar suddenly remembered. He now remembered the feeling of warm magic flowing through his body, easing the pain a little. He recognized the face directly above his. Strands of emerald hair framed his beautiful pale face; worry and pain marred his gorgeous blue eyes, but he would not shed a tear. Caspar had always thought that the way Linhardt seemed to zone out was more heart-wrenching than if he were bawling his eyes out. He moved his arm to wipe away the imaginary tears that rolled down Linhardt’s cheeks.

“Lin…” he said, rubbing circles on his best friend’s cheek with his thumb. “Ugh… my head.”

Linhardt sighed in relief. “He’s conscious.”

“Is he concussed?” a feminine voice asked. Caspar recognized it as Ada’s, and watched as the woman knelt beside Linhardt.

“I’m surprised he’s not _dead_.” 

Caspar clicked his tongue. He was always making Linhardt worry, was he not? 

“‘m fine,” he interjected, his voice hoarse and guttural. “Could even go… for a couple more rounds.” 

“Oh, he is definitely concussed,” Linhardt sighed. Or just plain stubborn as usual, he mentally noted. “We need to take him to the infirmary. Ada, will you give me a hand?”

Between the two of them, they carried Caspar out of the training grounds and into the infirmary through a rickety door that connected both buildings. The nurse at the front desk said nothing as none other than the young Count himself, accompanied by the Captain, took the injured blue-haired warrior inside. The infirmary was large and well-equipped, but at the time it was practically empty—there were not many sick or injured among the knights as of late. Linhardt chose an empty cot next to a window, closed the curtains that separated that area from the hallway, and then helped Ada hoist Caspar onto the bed. While he prepared his spell, she made some ice cubes appear in the palm of her hand. Caspar shuddered at the very sight of magic, but his aversion was only momentary; Ada put the ice into a rag and placed it on the bump on Caspar’s head. His initial groan of discomfort transformed into a sigh of relief. Then came Linhardt's turn to help.

Caspar closed his eyes, and let out a little hum as the pleasant sensation of white magic flowed through his body. He had been in this sort of situation more times than he could count. Linhardt was carefully checking for internal injuries and applying some relief to the area where the pain was the most intense, and he did so with the utmost care, like Caspar was a fragile thing. He cupped his head between his hands, first examining his temples, then the back of his head, then his neck. His soft fingertips brushed against the hairs on Caspar’s nape, making them stand on end and sending shivers down his spine. 

“My apologies,” Ada interjected all of a sudden, making Caspar snap back to reality. Her voice was a tad softer than usual. “I misread your movements, and you ended up getting hurt.”

“I told you… not to hold back… remember?” Caspar hummed, a weak smile on his face.

“It is still no excuse. This could have ended terribly. I would have never forgiven myself if something had happened to you.” 

Caspar nodded slowly in acknowledgment. That self-imposed feeling of guilt she must be experiencing right now was familiar indeed, but looking at the incident from his perspective, he could see just how pointless it was to feel bad because of what could have happened. Perhaps that was a lesson he too could learn from.

Linhardt stopped casting his magic all of a sudden, and mumbled something under his breath that Caspar did not quite catch. Must be good, though, because he seemed calmer than before. His job was not over yet, though. As Linhardt’s hands stopped glowing, he helped Caspar sit up, and then started to unbutton his shirt. Ada excused herself from the curtained-off area before Linhardt could even get to the third button or Caspar could ask what was going on. Not that he had to say a word, though; Linhardt had always had a gift for telling what was going through his old friend’s mind.

“Just making sure you didn't sustain any serious injuries during the fight. Trust me, the last thing you want is an untreated magical ulcer.” Caspar shuddered to think about what _that_ might look like, but decided that that knowledge was best left for another occasion. Fortunately, he only had some surface-level bruising on his chest that the young cleric patched up in no time. Linhardt scanned his naked torso like it was second nature, and under different circumstances, Caspar might have been embarrassed about the way his eyes seemed to linger on the rolls on his midsection for a moment, though the look on Linhardt’s face was far from judgemental. 

“Everything looks normal over here,” Linhardt finally stated as he pushed a couple strands of hair behind his ear.

“Good.”

“How are you feeling?” Linhardt asked as he helped Caspar turn around a little so he could keep searching for wounds elsewhere. It looked like Caspar’s back was next on his checklist; Caspar sheepishly let him do as he pleased. Trying to stay awake and clear-headed was already difficult enough.

“Fine, I guess,” he lied through his teeth as Linhardt helped him take off his shirt. “Been through much worse than this.”

“I forgot you are in possession of a thicker skull than most. That might have just saved your life.” 

Caspar hated the way it sounded like there was something caught in Linhardt's throat. “I told you it was _nothing_.”

Linhardt opened his mouth to retort, but whatever he was going to say completely slipped his mind the moment his gaze landed upon Caspar’s now exposed back.

Dozens of cuts littered the broad expanse of his back, forming a sort of criss-cross pattern that had been permanently etched onto his skin. The lacerated flesh around each of the gashes—some of them shallow, some deep—was bumpy and irregular, almost as though the wounds had been infected and the scabs had not been tended to properly. 

It was a truly vicious scar, unlike anything Linhardt had ever seen, and it had caught him completely off guard. 

As he processed what he was looking at, he sucked in a sharp breath of air and stepped back. He lost his footing and bumped against the bedside table, knocking over an assortment of vials and jars that had been left there. Alerted by the racket of glass breaking against the stone floor, Ada did not think twice; she swung the curtains open and rushed into the small cubicle, her hand warily closed around the hilt of her sword.

“Milord! What happened?”

It took Caspar a second to register what had caused Linhardt to pale like that, but then it dawned on him that his friend could _not_ have been prepared for what he would find under his clothes. He reached for his shirt and put it back on in silence, his head hanging low, ashamed that Linhardt had had to see that. There he stood in a corner of the room, avoiding eye contact, his grip on the edge of the bedside table turning his knuckles white. Caspar wanted to warn him that the hem of his long tunic was soaking up the spilled contents of the bottles he had knocked over, but he said nothing. He fidgeted with the bed sheets and fixed his eyes on his lap as he mentally prepared himself to answer the questions he imagined were forming in their minds. 

Ada was the first to speak up. She had managed to catch a glimpse of the scar, but even she could tell that her magic could not have possibly caused those wounds. No, the injury looked older than that—perhaps it was even a couple of years old. “Did it happen during the East Hevring campaign?” 

Caspar nodded slowly. “It's not a pretty story. You… probably… don't want to know.”

Ada clicked her tongue. That was not the answer she wanted to hear. She understood it might be a difficult topic for Caspar to speak about, but as his captain, the physical and mental wellbeing of her knights was one of her top priorities. If there was anything she could do for her newest recruit, then she wanted to know. But first she had to learn what exactly it was that Caspar seemed so afraid to tell them.

“Ada, I… I think we should let him rest… for now,” Linhardt mumbled. Unlike herself, Linhardt looked as though he had seen and heard enough for the day. Ada was well aware that her young liege had always been a tad apprehensive, and she understood if he wanted to take his leave now. 

“Milord, you may wait outside if this matter makes you uncomfortable.” 

To her surprise, Linhardt seemed to take offense at that. He crossed his arms and stubbornly stood his ground. 

Something about those scars had elicited that initial negative reaction out of Linhardt, and though they were covered now, they still made his stomach churn for reasons that had nothing to do with their aspect (the Goddess knew he had dealt with much worse during the war). No, something else about them just felt _wrong_ . Linhardt had seen plenty of wounds and scars—on his patients, on the bodies they had managed to recover once the dust settled after a battle. None of them could have ever matched the violence, the _cruelty_ , that had been enacted upon Caspar's back. 

Linhardt felt torn. He desperately wished to know what had happened, know who had hurt the most important person in his life like that. But at the same time, something irrational inside of him whispered that he was better off not knowing. That the truth was ugly, and scary.

And so, finding himself at a crossroads where he knew not which way to proceed, Linhardt stood there, still as a stone. He abstained from asking any questions or making any comments while Caspar narrated what had happened, but he listened to Caspar’s story, his heart beating a mile a minute.

“It was… about two years ago now. The people of Galatea had been unhappy for a while. There were protests, riots. And we were called to… to deal with…”

Caspar screwed his eyes shut. Linhardt saw his distress, and lowered his head. The memory of those days must be painful. Caspar was a soldier, but he was not a mindless brute. His strong sense of justice had accompanied him for years. Linhardt could perfectly see why he would be hesitant about suppressing a group of civilians armed with little more than pitchforks and hoes. The Galateans had already suffered enough at the hands of the central government, and Linhardt could only hope that his decision to pull back his troops (a decision he made as soon as he was legally able to) would help return some semblance of normalcy to those poor people.

“I see. What happened then?” Ada asked.

“I got separated from my battalion amidst the chaos, so I tried to go back. But then… a group of people noticed I was alone. They started shouting, pointing at me, and then they chased me. Soon, I was cornered. I knew I could not surrender there, but… in the moment of truth… I hesitated to fight back. That’s how they got me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was knocked unconscious, and taken… somewhere. I didn't know where I was when I woke up.”

“You were captured? By civilians?”

“Yes… well, actually, I think they must have been militia. An… organized resistance of sorts.” 

Ada looked lost in thought for a moment, but then she spoke. “Yes, I was notified of the existence of several extremist groups in the region.”

Caspar balled his fists, a quiet fury in his eyes. “Things are very different outside of Adrestia, you know. I mean, think about it! First we start a war, then we destroy and take their home by force… No wonder they hate us. I would fight back too.”

Linhardt felt as though his guts were being twisted and pulled the more he heard about what things were really like in the lands his family had annexed. The reports he and his father before him had received could never capture the horrors Caspar must have witnessed. The very thought made Linhardt's skin crawl, but knowing that they were partly—no, _fully_ —responsible for them was even worse. Edelgard had always talked about sacrifice, about the greater good, but Linhardt had never fully understood the scope of what their merry little Black Eagle Strike Force was trying to accomplish with the war, what the full extent of these sacrifices was. Caspar's account was a tough reality check. 

For now, though, it was good that Ada had decided to ignore those last comments. Were Caspar testifying in a court of law, his words might have had him labelled as a traitor, or even worse. “Please, continue.”

“Right,” Caspar breathed, his throat bobbing as he swallowed nervously. “I imagined I had been taken to their base of operations. They put me in a dungeon, and they interrogated me, but when they realized I would not say a word… they…” 

Caspar dug his nails into the back of his other hand, a pained expression on his face; it was as though the effort of finishing the sentence was going to kill him, so Ada did it for him:

“They _tortured_ you.” 

Caspar nodded quietly.

Linhardt felt as though someone had dropped a bucket of ice-cold water over him. He could scarcely process the words. Caspar— _his Caspar_ —had been tortured. He had been captured, imprisoned, and _tortured_. Linhardt felt like throwing up a little in his mouth. This was precisely what he was fearing they would find out. The terrible truth he subconsciously wanted to run away from.

Caspar proceeded to describe how they chained him to the wall and flogged him with a whip repeatedly, which was consistent with the shape and size of his scars. Ada allowed him to stop before going into the most gruesome details, though. She had heard enough, and from the looks of it, so had Linhardt, his face pale as a sheet.

“How long did this go on for, Caspar?”

“I don't know. It could have been… a couple of weeks. Maybe a month. Their base was raided by our troops after a while. I don't know if they were looking for me or if they just happened to come across it. The rebels all either died in the assault, or were captured and… brought to justice. I was found and freed by some of the knights.” Ada nodded. Indeed, she had read all about how the Imperial army had eliminated a bastion of rebels around the time Caspar was describing, which had quelled most of the riots in the area. However, something did not quite feel right about his story. 

“Why was this never reported to me?” she asked, crossing her arms.

“Huh?”

“Well, you said you were rescued by the knights. So why was I, their superior officer, not informed about this?”

“I said knights?” Caspar breathed, fidgeting with the bed sheets. “I… I meant soldiers. Soldiers of the Adrestian army. My memory is… well… I was in a bad state when they rescued me.” Then, he swallowed loudly and hastily added, “My superior officers wrote a report on it, though.”

“I see. But even so, it is strange that this is the first time I am hearing about this.” She pensively cupped her chin in her hand. “The abduction and torture of a _general_ at the hands of rebels sounds like something all of Fódlan would be talking about.” 

“I… don't know what to say.” His shoulders slumped, and he sank into the pillow with a melancholic look on his face. Linhardt decided it was time to intervene.

“Enough. That's enough for now.” He then walked up to Caspar’s bed. The utterly miserable look on his face possessed Linhardt to put a loving hand on his cheek and stroke his face. Caspar, however, rejected his affection. He turned his face away, his brow furrowed and a sour expression in his beautiful, sad blue eyes. Linhardt tried to not let it get to him. “You should rest for a while. Can I trust you to stay in bed for the remainder of the day?”

Caspar looked like he was about to protest, but instead nodded in silence. Linhardt had already suffered enough for today, and the last thing Caspar wanted was to add to his worries.

“Thank you for telling us your story, Caspar,” Ada said solemnly. “We will be taking our leave now.”

Caspar did not reply to the Captain, or even look towards the curtain as she and Linhardt left. He fixed his eyes on the tiny window to his right, but it was difficult to see anything through the smoked glass panes, which only let the light pass through. Someone in another cubicle far from where he was resting coughed, and the sound of the nurse’s heels clacking against the stone floors followed soon after. Caspar threw his head back and focused on the ceiling instead, unable to sleep or even close his tired eyes. The throbbing pain in his head was difficult to ignore, but something more worrying than a headache occupied his thoughts.

“Milord. May I have a word?” Ada spoke, trying to catch up with Linhardt as they both headed towards the massive doors that led out of the training grounds. For someone with such little love for physical activity, he sure walked fast. Lost in thought, Linhardt did not catch her words. The Captain tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. 

“What is it?” he croaked. Ada took a deep breath. What she was about to tell him might not sit well with him in his current state, but it had to be done.

“I was thinking about the story Caspar told us.” She lowered her voice so that the other knights, who had resumed their training, would not hear. “I find it rather _odd_ that a superior officer of the Adrestian army would not report the kidnapping of one of their men—of a _general_ , no less.”

“Well, you heard Caspar. He knows nothing about that.” For a moment, it looked like he was going to end the conversation there and then, but then he crossed his arms and skeptically raised an eyebrow. “What are you trying to imply?”

“Well… there is… a possibility that Caspar is not telling the truth. Or at least, not the whole truth.”

Linhardt tensed up upon hearing those words. He dug his nails into his sleeve. “You really think _he_ would lie about something like this?” 

“I do not know if he _would_ or not. All I know is that his story is not consistent with the standard procedures of the army, with which I am very familiar. For this reason, I am requesting permission to read his official campaign report.”

“His report?” Linhardt shook his head. “That's classified information that belongs to the Ministry of Military Affairs.” If possible, he wanted to avoid asking any favors of Hermann—or interacting with him more than what was strictly necessary. Being forced to endure his presence whenever Edelgard reunited her council of ministers was already trying enough. Linhardt regarded Count Bergliez as little more than an unpleasant boor. He was arrogant, uncouth, and lacking in all the aspects in which his younger brother excelled. It was hard to believe he and Caspar were related; physical similarities aside, the two were nothing alike.

“I asked that a copy be sent to me as soon as I was informed that Caspar was to be accepted into the Order. I thought it might be of use someday,” Ada explained. “I had no good reason to peruse his files before, but now is as good a chance as any to do so. But I need your express authorization to access the archive section at the library, which currently houses these documents.”

“And just what are you expecting to find?”

“Anything. Battle accounts, his medical history—anything that might lend credence to his story.”

Linhardt nodded, slowly at first, then more emphatically. If the story about the abduction was real, then of course it should show up on the official records, and _of course_ Caspar would know that. So he would gain nothing by lying about a fact that was so easy to verify. 

Logic aside, Linhardt simply found it difficult to believe that Caspar would have any motive to hide anything from them—from _him_. No one hated lies and dishonesty more than Caspar did, so the idea that he would come up with such a convoluted tale to explain an old injury… well, it was simply ludicrous.

“Do what you must to convince yourself that Caspar is telling the truth.”

The Captain bowed at him and thanked him. That could have been the end of things… but Ada could not leave her concerns unvoiced. “Milord, I understand that it was highly upsetting to hear about the terrible things he has been through. I know Caspar is important to you, but I implore you to think about this matter rationally. What purpose does blind faith serve when there is room for doubt?” 

“Blind faith,” Linhardt scoffed, disgruntled. “Why is it such a problem that I want to trust my best friend?”

“There is nothing wrong with trust, but I am simply advising you to exercise some critical thinking as well. The events he described raise some questions, and I am determined to find the answers I seek.” She closed her eyes, and exhaled. “And if by any chance I find that he was hiding something… if his dishonesty leads me to think he might pose a threat to you, or your family…”

“A threat!” Linhardt threw his hands in the air. “Are you hearing yourself?! This is _Caspar_ we are talking about!”

Ada bit her lip, realizing she had stepped out of line. She did not mean to come across as overly callous, but at the end of the day, it was her duty to watch out for the safety of her liege and his family. Caspar was an old friend of Linhardt’s, but she did not know him on a personal level. A lot could have changed during those five years he had been absent. “I am only speaking hypothetically, milord. I did not mean to offend.”

“Oh, I'm sure you didn't,” Linhardt snarled, his voice oozing with barely contained resentment. It was almost scary, especially considering the young count’s usually placid, apathetic nature. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, rusty key that he angrily shoved into Ada’s hands. “Fine then. Go read his damn record if that’s what you want. But I will hear none of it.”

“Milord—”

“No!” he exclaimed, shaking his head emphatically. “No. Just leave me out of this.”

With that, he stepped back and turned on his heel, not even deigning to bid the Captain farewell as he walked away. The training grounds had fallen into silence. The various shouts and labored grunts of the knights, the clashing of wood against wood, iron against iron, all had ceased a while ago. 

“Return to your duties!” the Captain spoke in a commanding voice, striding towards the main doors with a pensive look on her face, her fingers closed tightly around the key to the archive now in her possession.

The way Linhardt had reacted was decidedly strange. She was not angry at his sudden outburst, but she would be lying to herself if she did not admit she was a tad disappointed. The Captain did not know Linhardt on a personal level the way other people did, but she had always believed her young liege to be a curious mind, a rationally-driven individual. To see him now blinded by sentimentality, stubbornly denying facts and reason, was difficult on her. 

It mattered not. Linhardt had made it clear that he did not want to be involved, but that would not stop Ada from conducting her own investigation. Everything she did followed a meticulous method, and this was no different. Once she had made completely sure that that problematic detail in Caspar’s story was nothing to be worried about, she would finally be able to shelve this incident and move on.

And perhaps, once she proved once and for all that there was nothing to get so defensive about, her young liege would see reason.

Earlier that morning, going for a walk had sounded like a wonderful idea. 

Linhardt had promised himself that he would tackle the towering pile of paperwork on his desk after getting some fresh air. Blankly staring at the same black and white documents, unwilling and unable to proceed, was getting him nowhere; relaxing and trying again later, hopefully having found his ability to focus after a short stroll through the gardens, seemed like a much more productive endeavor.

It had all been in vain. Linhardt was still not sure what had drawn him to the training grounds. Truth was, he had not really been paying attention to where he was going, his mind preoccupied by a mess of things. 

Now he wandered aimlessly once again, nervously twisting and turning the white ribbon tied around his thin wrist. He had made it back to the mansion in a daze, but the motivation to return to his office was nowhere to be found. Not after everything that had happened at the infirmary.

Linhardt shook his head and tried to get the image of Caspar writhing in pain somewhere dark and damp out of his mind. He tried to stay calm, keep himself grounded, but he could not. His thoughts jumped around at breakneck speed, barely giving him any time to process what he was feeling. His surroundings had stopped making sense a while ago, too. A swirl of colors and vague shapes danced all around him and threatened to make him sick.

It was when he turned the handle of the door in front of him that he realized that he had somehow made it to Caspar’s dormitory, all the way on the third floor. As he steadily returned to his senses, he let go of the handle, but to his surprise, the door opened slowly, effortlessly. It was unlocked.

Caspar must have left it like that. He had always claimed he had little need for privacy, and rarely liked to lock the door to his living quarters. Linhardt was tempted to take a quick peek through the crack. The room was totally dark. The curtains were closed, but what little he was able to see was a mess, bed sheets haphazardly discarded onto the floor, and a book half buried under them. Linhardt squinted, trying to make out the words on the cover. It looked like it was a… Reason textbook? What was Caspar doing with something like that? The magic tome was the least of his worries, though. Caspar was no neat freak, but Linhardt had noticed that back during their days at the Academy he had made a habit of tidying up his room at least a little before taking on the rest of his daily chores around the monastery. An habit he must have picked up from one of their old classmates, no doubt.

The idea of letting himself in and answering these many questions crossed Linhardt’s mind for a split second. In the past, his friend probably would not have minded him invading his personal space for no particular reason… but things were different now, he reminded himself as he closed the door and walked away, his head hanging low between his shoulders.

Where to next? The idea of shutting himself away in his office was attractive. He doubted he would get anything done, but he could always try to meditate there with a little help from his favorite blend of smoking herbs. A bad habit he had picked up sometime after the death of his father, he had quickly become addicted to the pleasant, calm sensation that flooded his brain as the pure white smoke invaded his lungs. His office and the gardens outside were the only places he allowed himself to smoke, and never in the presence of Christina. The coughing fits and the physical exhaustion that followed the high were a price he was willing to pay for a few moments of clarity, but poisoning the air others breathed in was just rude. Besides, that stuff could not be very healthy for his expecting wife and the baby. 

He put his hand in his pocket and felt for the small velvet satchel that contained his herbs, but oddly enough, his pipe was missing. Linhardt groaned in frustration, realizing he must have forgotten it at the training grounds alongside his book.

Great. 

Just great. 

It was barely noon and he was already spent. He wondered if anyone would mind if he decided to hole himself up in his bedroom and call it a day. No more work, no more responsibilities. Spending the rest of the day in bed wearing nothing but his most comfortable nightshirt sounded lovely, silken bed sheets and velvet pillows offering refuge from the outside world. Perhaps he could feign feeling ill as an excuse to be left alone. 

Alone with his thoughts. 

Alone with the painful feelings he harbored for Caspar and the regrets that were eating him alive.

Linhardt collapsed onto his bed as soon as he was out of his robes. On second thought, putting his sleeping gown on was entirely too much effort. Nothing wrong with sleeping naked, though. Feeling small and vulnerable, he cocooned himself under the bed sheets and the heavy comforter, and closed his eyes—hoping, as was customary for him to do before falling asleep, that this surreal world he was living in was nothing but a figment of his imagination.

Linhardt woke up some time later to the bitter realization that he was _not_ dreaming, and to the unpleasant sensation of having his prized covers stolen away from him. A shrill scream followed. He covered his ears as the maid who had discovered him recoiled in shock, clutching her chest as though she had just seen a ghost.

“M–Milord!” she managed to utter as she covered her eyes and turned her face away, her ears red.

“You. Why?” Linhardt asked in a daze, squinting at her. His glasses were on the bedside table. He clumsily reached for them and calmly put them on.

The poor girl did not even react to such a strange question, and answered to the best of her ability. “I was t–told to come clean up the master bedroom. I… I was surprised to find the bed in disarray, since I… made it this morning myself… so I came to check and—I'm sorry, m–milord! I have to go now!”

Linhardt scrunched his nose, but only then did he remember he was completely naked. Unphased by this fact, he threw a blanket on and watched as the upset maid left his bedchamber in a hurry. He stretched, his tired bones creaking as he did, and then sat on the edge of his bed, contemplating the gardens outside with a weary expression on his face. Everything had turned a dull shade of gray. A dense mass of clouds covered the blue skies above, blocking out the sun entirely and disorienting him further. He could not tell how long he had been napping for, but judging by the way his stomach growled, it had to be well past lunchtime—perhaps even tea time. 

A soft knock on the door brought him back to reality. He looked over his shoulder to see his wife’s face peeking in from behind the half-open door. She moseyed towards the bed, looking at Linhardt with a perplexed expression in her eyes and her lips forming an O shape.

“Linny? Dear, we have been looking for you everywhere! Have you really been here this whole time?”

Linhardt simply yawned a “yes” in response. His nap had been interrupted so abruptly that he really did not feel like getting up, and his fight with Ada still weighed heavily on his heart and mind. 

What bothered him the most was the fact that the rational part of himself was telling him that she was right. Well, accusing Caspar of something so serious had been uncalled for, but she was right about everything else. If he trusted Caspar, then he should have nothing to get so defensive about. There simply had to be a logical explanation for everything he had said, even the things that, admittedly, were a bit difficult to accept as true. 

So why was it that he still refused to admit to himself that he had made a mistake? Why was he so desperate to hold onto the irrational desire of blindly believing in Caspar? 

Why was he getting such a bad feeling about this entire incident?

He furrowed his brow, the large windows’ reflection of a grumpy, underdressed Linhardt staring back at him. Much like the Crest of Cethleann, stubbornness must run in the Hevring bloodline. He was starting to become too much like his prideful old man, and much sooner than he would have estimated it would happen, too. 

“Linny!”

“What?”

“Are you even listening?!” She sounded anguished. “First you disappear all day, and now I find you here, looking like you have seen a ghost—” 

“It’s been a rough day.”

“—and you are not even wearing any clothes! Linhardt, we have talked about this. _Please_ have some decorum. Someone could have seen you!”

“Could you please _stop_?! An etiquette lesson is the last thing I need right now!” Linhardt snapped, burying his face in his hands. His breathing was shallow, the rise and fall of his chest hard to control. The touch of her warm, delicate hand on his back was all he was able to process for a while, though he was not sure himself if it was a welcome sensation or if he wanted it to stop.

“Please, just tell me what is wrong,” Christina pleaded as she started rubbing circles on his back. “My heart breaks seeing you like this.”

Linhardt swallowed with difficulty. He looked up for a moment, her sad eyes locking with his. If only talking to _her_ were so easy! Linhardt wished he could do just that, without the fear of having to justify himself every two seconds. Things that made perfect sense to Linhardt were completely irrational in her eyes, and it made Linhardt feel invalidated.

The worst thing was that Linhardt did not know why he expected otherwise coming into this relationship. He had known for a long time that he was different. Different from the other kids. Different from his fellow classmates. Over the years, Linhardt had learned to accept and embrace his uniqueness, as had the people who truly loved him. It was the rest of the world that seemed to have a problem with him. Everyone else just found it easier to punish him for his socially unacceptable behaviors and his strange emotional responses.

And so, every time Linhardt began to think that Christina might truly care about him the way she claimed she did, every time he began to think that the two of them could have been good friends if they had met under different circumstances, she would say or do something that pushed him further away from her. 

Was the divide between them really too great to overcome?

“I need you… to listen,” he finally spoke after a prolonged silence.

Christina blinked slowly, surprised. The intense look on his face told her that this was important. “I… I am listening. I promise.”

Linhardt inhaled sharply, and then slowly breathed out. “There was an accident at the training grounds this morning. Caspar got hurt. I was there when it happened. He hit his head against a pillar, and for a moment, I… I really feared that he…” 

“Oh dear,” Christina gasped. “Is he alright?”

“We took him to the infirmary and left him there to rest after making sure everything was fine.” A chill ran down his spine as the image of Caspar’s back flashed before his eyes. “But then… something else happened.”

Linhardt proceeded to tell Christina about the scar and,leaving out the more graphic details, the story behind it. He also told her about the lump in his throat while listening to Caspar’s account of what things were like in the land of Galatea. 

“I guess I am just… trying to wrap my head around everything. I wish I could just run away from it all! But I don’t have the luxury to.” 

“That is a feeling I know well,” Christina solemnly stated, to which Linhardt nodded slowly. “What I mean to say is that I understand how you feel. And I also understand that opening up like that must not have been easy, especially after I was so insensitive towards you. That is why I thank you for being honest with me.”

Linhardt sniffled. It was a nice change of pace, having Christina sympathize with him like that. This was a conversation that he would never have imagined could happen between them, but he was glad it had. He closed his eyes. She was trying. She was genuinely _trying_ to connect with him on a personal level, and that was precisely what made things worse. It would be so much easier to give up on his wife if she were a bad person, but Linhardt had known her for three years now and he knew that, despite everything, she was full of love for him. It only made him feel more miserable about their farce of a marriage. Feeling a pang of guilt, Linhardt cupped her belly between his hands and leaned forward, gathering his courage and pressing his lips against hers in a chaste kiss. But that familiar tingle that used to rock him to the core whenever Caspar kissed him was completely gone; now there was only emptiness. He pulled back, avoiding Christina's gaze. He knew he would not be able to stomach seeing the shadow of disappointment in her beautiful crimson eyes. 

But to his surprise, she simply put her hands over his and smiled sadly, and for a moment, Linhardt wondered if she knew how much he longed for someone else's lips instead.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you before.” He sniffled, cringing at the thought of how puffy and red his eyes must look. “I… don't know what’s wrong with me.”

Christina shook her head, and started running her fingers through the tangled mess of hair that cascaded down Linhardt's bare shoulders. “These past few weeks have been very stressful. But this will all pass, my love. You _will_ get up and you _will_ come out of this stronger than before. I know you can do it.”

Linhardt hummed in acknowledgment. Had it been anyone else, he would have just rolled his eyes at those words, but coming from Christina’s lips, they had meaning to them. The Goddess knew the poor woman had not had an easy life. If there was ever an example of grit and perseverance in the face of misfortune, it had to be her. 

Her words ringing in his head, Linhardt bid her farewell, promising he would not go back to bed and that he would be at the dining hall in time to share a meal with her. He looked out the window once more, the sky several shades darker than earlier. It seemed like rain was on its way. A certain someone must not be very thrilled about the idea, he thought, the slightest hint of a smile on his lips.

There was still some time until dinner. Perhaps he should pay him a visit, just to make sure everything was fine.

When Linhardt arrived at the deserted infirmary later that evening, he was surprised to find Hadrian there, sitting on the stool by the cot that Caspar occupied. The two men were conversing casually, and Caspar was so entranced by the conversation that he did not even flinch when thunder cracked in the distance, rattling the shoddy glass panes on the window just as Linhardt emerged from behind the curtains that separated the small cubicle from the hallway.

“Lin!” he immediately exclaimed, sitting up to get a better look at Linhardt. As he shuffled under the covers, a small pile of wood shavings that had gathered on top of the bed sheets scattered everywhere, but Linhardt was less worried about the mess than he was intrigued about the origin of the chipped wood. “You are soaking wet,” Caspar noted as Linhardt slowly stepped in, a small puddle forming under his shoes.

“It started raining on my way here,” Linhardt said, removing his glasses and searching for the handkerchief in his pocket. The small piece of cloth was just as drenched as his outer garments. Useless.

“Allow me, milord,” Hadrian spoke, noticing his predicament. He stood up and procured a clean towel and a strip of gauze from a cabinet of medical supplies. He then gestured towards the humble stool he had been occupying. “Please have a seat. Do you need a change of clothes? An umbrella? I shall have them brought here at once.”

“Wait, you’re leaving already?” Linhardt asked. 

Hadrian explained that he was actually about to leave, and apologized for leaving his duties unattended, but Linhardt shook his head and told him there was nothing to be sorry about. He and Caspar were close, so it was understandable that the older knight would want to pay him a visit after learning that he had been taken to the infirmary. But Hadrian once again declined Linhardt’s offer to stay a bit longer. Caspar said goodbye to him with a sad look in his eyes, and sighed once he finally left. He absentmindedly fidgeted with something half-hidden between the bed sheets as Linhardt padded over to his bed and sat down next to him.

“I didn’t mean to barge in like that.”

“No! No, it’s fine!” Caspar reassured Linhardt, avoiding eye contact. “You heard him. He has more important stuff to do.”

A beat of silence. “He really cares about you, Caspar.”

“I know. I just… no, nevermind.” Although Caspar was too distraught to share his thoughts, Linhardt thought he understood. Hadrian was older and wiser, and though he had never married or had any children of his own, he had always had that paternal instinct about him. Stern, but sweet and caring at the same time. Linhardt doubted that the late Count Bergliez had ever shown his youngest even a hundredth of the affection that Hadrian displayed so openly. He would not be surprised if at some point Caspar had started looking up to him not just as a mentor, but as something else. 

For now, though, Linhardt decided it would be best not to pressure Caspar, so instead he tried to steer the conversation towards a different topic. Caspar was fidgeting so frantically that it was almost distracting, so Linhardt put a gentle hand over his scarred knuckles as a friendly reminder that there was nothing to be so nervous about. 

“What do you have there?”

“Oh, uh!” Caspar blushed, and tried to hide the item he had been so absentmindedly fumbling with. “It’s nothing. Really.”

Of course, that only stirred Linhardt’s curiosity. The way he brushed his fingernails against the back of his hand, tacitly asking for permission to take a closer look, was all the incentive Caspar needed to finally give in and open his tense fist, revealing a small block of wood and a folded pocket knife with his initials engraved into the lacquered grip. Caspar must have asked the nurse or a maid to bring him these from his room. Well, that answered the question of where all those shavings had come from. Still, Linhardt could not help opening his mouth in surprise.

“I thought you said you had given up on wood carving for good,” he sardonically commented. He still remembered how disappointed he had felt the day his dear old friend had finally returned home, which felt like ages ago even if it had not yet been a full month. Caspar had laughed then at the suggestion that, instead of applying to become a knight, he should perhaps pursue higher education or learn a trade instead. It seemed like that conversation had not been a total waste. Caspar was still working on improving his craft.

“I said that?” Caspar asked, scratching his stubbly chin. Linhardt shot him a skeptical look. Playing dumb to save face would _not_ work on him. “Fine, fine! Don't look at me like that!” 

Linhardt said nothing, but giggled, endeared. He asked for permission to take a closer look, and took the block of wood in his hands, running a finger along the curved surface Caspar had been giving shape to. It would be some time until that piece would be finished, but Linhardt recognized the silhouette of a small beak and a wing. It looked like Caspar was making an adorable duckling. 

“It looks incredible, Caspar.”

Caspar let out a little whine, his cheeks blushing beautifully. “It's just this silly thing I've been working on. It's not even finished yet.”

“Well, I think your little friend is going to become something wonderful,” he said, tenderly petting its round head. Suddenly, a sharp, irritating pain in his finger made him wince. “Ow. What the hell?”

“Ah, Lin—don't do that,” Caspar chided him. He retrieved the unfinished carving and set it on the windowsill, then grabbed Linhardt's arm and rolled up his long sleeve in order to take a better look at the injured hand. A small splinter had been lodged deep into his fingertip, and though it did not seem like cause for concern, Caspar insisted on helping him out. Like it was second nature to him, he pressed the slender finger against his lips, and then took it in his mouth up to the first knuckle. Stunned into silence, Linhardt waited with bated breath as Caspar sucked the splinter out, his warm tongue lapping at his finger and his teeth grazing his skin. Linhardt was almost heartbroken that this casual, intimate moment between them had to come to an end. The pain was already beginning to subside as Caspar spat the insidious needle out. “I haven't sanded it yet. Gotta be careful with these things,” he explained calmly, like there was nothing bewildering about what he had just done. Meanwhile, Linhardt could barely register his words through the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears, so loud that he feared Caspar might hear.

“Y–yes. Thank you,” he mumbled, withdrawing his hand and twisting the ribbon tied around his wrist. Caspar smiled at him.

“You know, I should be the one thanking you,” he laughed. “I thought I _wanted_ to quit wood carving, and dedicate myself fully to being the perfect knight! But… when I saw you, and we talked for the first time in ages, and you told me you still kept those ugly fishing lures I made for you back when I started out… well, that stuck with me. I couldn’t just give up so easily. I had to keep trying. I’m Caspar, and I never give up, no matter how rough things get!”

He pumped his fist in the air triumphantly, eliciting a little chuckle out of Linhardt. But then, something slotted into place in his mind, and his smile slowly faded. 

“Oh my saints. I think I know what you were trying to do this morning,” Linhardt mumbled. He had not given the circumstances surrounding the accident too much thought, having assumed it had just been a product of… well, Caspar being Caspar. But now, Linhardt had the sneaking suspicion that his friend might actually have a reason and a purpose for doing what he did. It all made sense now. His strange new training regime. The textbook he had found in his room. They were all pieces of the same puzzle. “Caspar, are you trying to train your magic affinity?”

“What?”

“Yes… yes, that’s why you wanted to train with Ada. That’s why you were standing in the way of her attacks!” He kept the part about the Reason book to himself. Caspar did not need to know he had been snooping near his room, even though he never did enter in the end. As upset as he was, it was an undeniable fact that at least Caspar had been doing his research. Most Reason scholars recommended that their younger students, especially those born without a natural predisposition for magic, begin by creating a connection to the magical elements through exposure. Caspar's way of going about it was still so wrong, though. It was one thing to practice casting small gusts of wind on a classmate, but going up against one of the most seasoned mages in the Order? Borderline suicidal.

There was a prolonged silence during which only the sound of rain battering against the windows could be heard in the room. Caspar finally broke it with a little laugh of resignation that sounded more like he was just huffing.

Linhardt sucked in a breath and tried to be as patient as possible. It seemed like everyone was particularly on edge that day, but Linhardt had no desire to bicker or fight anymore. “I just… I want to know why.” He placed a hand on Caspar's forearm. “Let me start by saying that the feats you are already capable of doing are truly amazing. And this is coming from someone who will probably never understand the appeal of combat.” Linhardt noticed a bit too late that his attempt at making a little joke fell flat, but nonetheless, he kept talking. “But if for whatever reason you still want to become a mage, I want to do everything I can to support your decision.”

“I don’t wanna be a _mage_ ,” Caspar huffed. “I just need to be able to _resist_ magical attacks. If I can do that, then… then I can do the job you trusted me with.”

“What do you mean?”

Caspar inhaled. “Christina. And not just her, but the baby too. _Your_ baby.” Linhardt nodded quietly. Hearing those words from Caspar's lips was still strange, but he did not let something so small distract him from what Caspar was trying to tell him. “I’m supposed to be their guard! I wouldn't know what I would do if I let something bad happen to them 'cause I wasn't strong enough. I wouldn't be able to look you in the eye if that happened. That's why I gotta be ready for anything. I started thinking about it and realized that if someone wanted to hurt them for whatever reason, they'd definitely go for me first. Arrows and swords I can handle. But magic? I don't even wanna think about what would happen if mages attacked.”

“Mages,” Linhardt repeated.

“Yeah, mages! You know… _those_ dark mages? The ones who killed Captain Jeralt and did those horrible things to the people of Remire. We haven’t heard news about them in a while.”

That sounded like an awfully specific thing to worry about, though Linhardt supposed it was logical that Caspar had not yet heard the news that Edelgard and Hubert had made huge strides in their war against this enigmatic group. If their reports were to be believed, Those Who Slither In The Dark are but a shadow of what they used to be, and their Minister of the Imperial Household had such a tight grip on what was left of the group that it was hard to believe that they could escape his watchful eye somehow. Linhardt could not think of a reason why they would target him or his family anyways. Assassinations for political reasons were not unheard of, but the motives of the Agarthans were just as mysterious as their very existence. 

Linhardt made sure to inform Caspar of everything that Edelgard and Hubert had been up to in his absence, and also assuaged his friend’s fear of facing an enemy he could do little against, which seemed to be the main cause of his concern. “I understand your concerns, Caspar. And I’m here to tell you that I already think you are capable of doing the job I entrusted to you. That said, if you think training in the ways of magic would be beneficial for you, if that’s something you need in order to grow as a person, or a warrior, or whatever, then I won’t say no to that.” Caspar's face suddenly lit up a little, a hint of a smile appearing on his lips. “On two conditions.”

“Uh, sure.”

“One, your training starts at the very beginning of Reason theory. No more throwing yourself into battle until you are truly ready. You are allowed to complain about how mind-numbingly boring the basic drills are though. I know. I have been there before.”

Caspar looked discouraged for a moment, but then nodded. “That sounds… reasonable enough. What's the second condition?”

Linhardt suddenly stood up and leaned over the edge of the bed, wrapping his arms around Caspar and pulling him into a warm, comforting hug that sent shivers down his own spine, even though Linhardt had been the one to initiate it.

“You have to remember that you are not on your own anymore, so do not try to hide or lie about these sorts of things, alright?”

“Lin…”

Wondering if the hug had been too much, Linhardt pulled back. “I know now that you were put into… that terrible situation. Healing from those wounds must have taken so much courage, and I think you are a real hero just for making it out of that hell.” Caspar lowered his head, his gaze absent. It was also difficult for Linhardt to talk about the incident with the Galatean extremists without feeling repulsed by what they had done to his dearest, oldest friend, but if hearing those words would help Caspar in any way, then Linhardt was more than glad to repeat them until they sank in. “Just promise you'll remember that you are home, and… and that you are safe… and that the people who love you are all here. We are all right here with you.”

Caspar mumbled something under his breath that Linhardt did not quite catch. 

“Hm? Did you say something?”

“Oh—nothing. Just talking to myself.”

Linhardt shrugged. “Alright. I'll leave you to rest now. The nurse will bring you dinner if you decide to stay the night, but you may return to your bedroom if you want to. How are you feeling?”

“Much better. Headache’s gone, at least. The bump hurts like hell, though.” As if to prove the truth of his words, he ran his fingers through his cropped hair, visibly grimacing and letting out a hiss as he pressed the tender spot on the crown of his head. Linhardt rolled his eyes, but could not help smiling a little.

“Then don't touch it so much.”

Caspar let out a sheepish little laugh. “Alright, alright. I think I'm gonna spend the night here anyways. The infirmary is right next to the training grounds, so I'll be the first one to arrive in the morning for sure!”

He then started moving his arms around as though he were shooting magic at a horde of invisible enemies. Linhardt watched him do his thing, a glint in his eye and a warm feeling in his chest. It looked like, despite everything, Caspar was still Caspar, and nothing would ever change that. Linhardt left soon after bidding his friend one last goodnight. The rain that seeped through his hair and his clothes with every step he took across the gardens would not dampen his mood. 

Knowing that Caspar was feeling better was all he needed to feel like his world suddenly made a little more sense again.

Meanwhile, alone in the dim infirmary at last, Caspar stopped smiling, and slumped his shoulders as he slowly let out all the air inside his lungs. He then breathed in as steadily as he had exhaled, and repeated this process until a sudden flash of light outside the window startled him. He instinctively clutched the wooden charm that he always wore around his neck. Like a prayer, he counted the beads that Linhardt had long ago strung into the necklace with his once tiny hands. 

Seven. Then thunder.

The storm outside was slowly drifting away. The wind blew stronger still, howling menacingly through a vent in the ceiling. Caspar curled up under the bed sheets and pressed his lips against the charm in an attempt to distract himself from the heavy feelings weighing down on his chest that would not go away no matter how hard he tried.

“I'm sorry, Lin. I'm sorry I’m not the hero you think I am.”

Ada had been meaning to head down to the archive as soon as she had finished her duties, but the evening storm had complicated things. 

As Captain, she felt it was her responsibility to make sure that any pieces of equipment that might have been damaged in the rain or struck by lightning were put away, and that the hay for the horses and the coal supply for the smithy were all safely stored in a dry place. After that, she had headed towards her quarters and taken a bath to remove the mud and the sweat off her body and clothes. A knight must always be ready to dirty their hands in the name of duty, but they also ought to be presentable.

She put on her reading glasses, put her hand in her pocket to make sure the key to the archive was still on her person, and headed towards the library.

As she took the stairs that led to the second floor of the mansion, she ran into a familiar face. “Ah, Hadrian. Perfect timing. There is something I need to take care of. Do you mind accompanying me?” Ada said, showing her lieutenant the old key. Hadrian immediately understood where she was headed to, and nodded.

“Of course, Captain.”

Tradition mandated that the lord or lady of the house had to accompany anyone who wished to enter the archive and open the door themselves. Hadrian did not entirely approve of Linhardt carelessly handing out something so valuable as the archive key, though he was glad he had given it to the righteous, reliable Ada. Anyone else might not be so trustworthy. As he reminded himself to politely but firmly reprimand his young liege for his carelessness, he opened the doors to the library for his Captain, and the two went in.

“I wish I could visit this place more often,” Ada commented, gasping in awe as she brushed her fingers against the mahogany handrail. The entrance to the library was on the second floor of the mansion, but the massive room was two stories tall. An ornate spiral staircase took visitors to the lower level, offering them a breathtaking look at the massive collection as they descended. The fortune that House Hevring had amassed since their lineage was established was not limited to the many works of art the family had commissioned over the centuries, or even the sum of their vast assets. Ada was of the opinion that this veritable sanctuary of knowledge was the real treasure they had the privilege of possessing. 

“When was the last time you had a day off, Captain?” Hadrian asked.

“Much too long ago. But duty always comes first.”

“That we can agree on,” Hadrian replied, longingly staring at a pile of books someone had left unattended on top of a desk.

The two finally reached a small, inconspicuous door at the far end of the library. Two guards that patrolled the area at all times stopped them, and waited for the Captain to show them the key while Hadrian explained the situation and said he was coming in his liege’s stead. The knights promptly let them into the archive without further question.

Compared to the library, the archive was a drab and dusty place, the oppressive atmosphere accentuated by the fact that there were no other doors than the one they had just come through and no windows at all. The room was tightly sealed in order to prevent anyone from accessing the most important documents pertaining to House Hevring and the Ministry of Domestic Affairs. Ada squinted. Fire magic and candles were absolutely prohibited down there, but that did not pose a problem for a seasoned holy knight like Hadrian. He closed his eyes and used his vast knowledge of Faith magic to conjure a small sphere of light. It floated upwards until it touched the ceiling, and there it stayed, providing a comfortable light for them to explore the archive to their heart’s content. Ada immediately located the cabinet they were looking for. It stood out from the rest in that it was the only piece of furniture that had not had time to collect a layer of dust on top of it yet; the transferral of files had taken place recently, after all. She reached for the handle of the top drawer, but stopped dead in her tracks before opening it. 

“Before I do this, there is something I would like to ask you, Hadrian. Caspar told us a most… peculiar story today.”

“You… are talking about the Galat—I mean, the East Hevring incident he was involved in.”

“Precisely. What do you know about it?”

“Only what he has told me in person. You see, his superior officers… they did not seem keen on revealing too much information to anyone outside of the army, but I know this much: Caspar was apparently taken prisoner by the resistance. It was one group that had gathered quite the large following in the former region of Galatea back then. Caspar was separated from his group during a military conflict, and went missing in action for about a month or so until his comrades managed to locate the rebel base. The rebels were all promptly disposed of . Caspar was rescued, and the group has been inactive since.”

“What did they do to Caspar?”

“He was tortured for information. I assume you saw the scars on his back and questioned him about it already.”

“He told me that much, yes.”

Ada put her finger on her lips and hummed, her thoughts going a mile a minute. Hadrian’s story perfectly coincided with Caspar’s. The more she learned, the lower the chance that the mission report contradicted their stories. But then why was the Ministry of Military Affairs so determined to keep the incident under wraps? Was there something she was missing? Hermann von Bergliez _was_ a grossly incompetent man, so it would not be entirely out of character for him to have simply made a blunder somewhere, which would have led to this huge misunderstanding. Perhaps everyone else was right, and Ada was simply obsessing over nothing, blinded by her perfectionist, skeptical nature.

“Is there something wrong, Captain?” Hadrian asked.

She let out a sigh, and shook her head, defeated. “No, it is nothing. Let us finish what we came here to do.” Ada opened the cabinet and browsed its contents, which had been arranged alphabetically. Each of the files corresponded to a knight of the Order of Hevring, and each of them had been put into a wax-sealed envelope. She carefully flipped through the B section and retrieved one of them. “Bergliez. Here it is.”

Ada reached into her pocket and produced a small letter knife, which she used to break open the seal. The sour look on her face was not lost on Hadrian, whose eyes nervously jumped between the paper and her. What would she find inside that envelope? And what should he do about it if things went awry? Caspar had reassured him that the documents were all in order, that he had been promised that everything was properly taken care of. But now, in the moment of truth, the older knight was having trouble keeping calm. So many things could have gone wrong; someone could have deliberately or accidentally made an error, and Caspar would pay for it.

His heart pounding, he looked over Ada’s shoulder and read what was written on the page:

✥

_BERGLIEZ, C._

_EAST HEVRING PEACEKEEPING CAMPAIGN (1186-1191)_

_OFFICIAL PERFORMANCE REPORT_

_FULL NAME: Caspar von Bergliez_

_DATE OF BIRTH: 1st of the Blue Sea Moon. I.Y. 1163_

_SEX: Male_

_RANK:_ ▇▇▇▇▇ _N/A_

_INCIDENT REPORT:_

▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ _Taken captive by extremist militia. Rescued one month later._

_DISCIPLINARY MEASURES APPLIED:_

▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ _N/A_

_SIGNED_

_Hermann von Bergliez, Minister of Military Affairs_

_Roman von Boramas, General of the Adrestian Army_

_Helga von Rusalka, Secretary of the Ministry of Military Affairs_

_THIS DOCUMENT IS AN AUTHORIZED COPY. FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY._

✥

Ada pushed up her reading glasses, fearing that she might be hallucinating, or that her eyes were deceiving her somehow. 

“There is information missing—half of what was written on the page has been obscured!” she exclaimed, running her fingers over the paper in disbelief. “And what is the meaning of _this_?” she asked, noticing the words that had been written near the bottom of the largest ink blot. The messy scrawl definitely did not match the neat handwriting of the scribe who had filled in Caspar's personal information at the top of the page.

Hadrian felt faint as Ada kept reading the file, turning it over, desperately trying to make heads or tails of what she was looking at.

“Could the document have been tampered with?” Hadrian asked, even though he already knew it was impossible.

“The seal was untouched; I opened it right in front of you,” Ada replied, frustration beginning to seep into her voice. She forcefully put the file back inside the envelope, and returned it to the cabinet. She then ran a hand through her locks, realization sinking in as she slowly turned her head to look Hadrian in the eye. “You do know what this means, do you not?”

Hadrian swallowed, unsure of how to answer. For now, though, it would be wise to keep calm and play along. “I… I think I do.”

Ada nodded solemnly, her glare of steel fixed onto some indeterminate point in front of her.

It meant that something bigger than she had initially imagined was happening right in front of their noses.

And she did not like it one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens... Hope you liked this chapter! 
> 
> Let me know what you thought or what theories you have in the comments, reviews and kudos are always appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/comments/bookmarks are appreciated!


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